


Wake Up

by hautesauce



Series: Wake Up: A Destiel Story [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BAMF Castiel, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dean Has A Wing Kink, Dean Loves Pie, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Dean Winchester Loves The Impala, Dean Winchester Masturbates, Destiel - Freeform, Explicit Language, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grace Kink, Grace Sex, Hand Jobs, Hurt Dean Winchester, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mild Smut, Non-Canon Relationship, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester, Romantic Castiel, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Wing Kink, Winged Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-28 14:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 58,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8449468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hautesauce/pseuds/hautesauce
Summary: Dean is having a mental breakdown, and Castiel is the only one who might be able to help. Can Dean let down his guard enough to let Castiel in? Can he reconcile his feelings for Cas despite his own crushing insecurity? And can Castiel fight Dean's inner demons without losing himself in the process? Will someone, anyone, please just use their friggin' words?----------Darkness enveloped the forest that wind and rain threatened to tear apart. A crack of lightning scorched across the sky into a clearing, and in it appeared a glowing figure crouched low to the ground. The figure slowly stood, emanating a radiant light from the core of its being. Its features were difficult to discern, but one could make out a silhouette of a long billowing trench coat and glowing blue eyes aflame with intent. Behind the figure stretched two huge, inky black wings crackling with electricity, pulsing with the rainbow sheen of an oil slick, feathers blowing wildly in the swirling wind and rain.Dean. Where are you? thought Castiel, Angel of the Lord.





	1. What Could Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, part of a series of three. 
> 
> Comments are life. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: destielmixtape

Lisa was cowering in the corner beside the sofa, dark eyes blown wide, voice cracking with terror. “Dean! DEAN! Leave him alone!” she pleaded. Broken glass was strewn across the floor, the coffee table smashed and a chair overturned. The broken lamp emitted no light, the only illumination in the room came from the streetlamps outside and a slice of yellow thrown across the floor from the sconce in the hall. 

Dean’s chest heaved deeply with adrenaline-fueled breaths.  He savored his rage as he slowly slid young Ben up the wall, a fierce grip on his slim neck. Directly adjacent to Ben’s head hung a framed photograph. Dean with his short, sandy hair, with his right arm around Lisa’s waist, left hand resting on Ben’s shoulder in front of him. Wide smiles. Sears Portrait Studio. Dean wore a sweater.

_ I hate that fucking sweater _ , thought Dean.  _ How did I ever think that this, this fucking farce, could ever result in anything other than pain? _

A windstorm raged outside, wind howling like a wounded animal. Or was that Lisa? The whipping shadows of branches thrashed against the wall. Dean’s faced was twisted into something somewhere between a grin and a grimace. Thunder crashed and lightning sliced into the room, flaring Dean’s green eyes into emeralds which bored into Ben with clinical intensity.

“DEAN!” Lisa shrieked as Ben kicked his legs helplessly, clawing at Dean’s right hand, the one with the vice-like grip slowly choking the life from him. Dean felt a familiar burn creep up his arm, toward his chest, something akin to comfort soaked in resentment and shame. Ben sputtered and grunted, unable to form words as he slowly suffocated under Dean’s crushing anger. The whites of Ben’s eyes splashed with red as the blood vessels surrounding his irises burst from the strain.

Dean heard shuffling behind him, and anticipating interference, pivoted sideways to see Lisa running toward him with a heavy crystal vase in hand. His arm shot out and caught hers, and in one swift movement he twisted her arm around until he felt a satisfying snap. She dropped the vase which thudded to the floor at his feet. He luxuriated in her cry of anguish before throwing her to the floor. He turned his attention back to Ben, still suspended above the ground but no longer thrashing. He hung limply, deadweight pinned against the wall. A empty feeling of dissatisfaction washed over Dean, and he flung the boy’s body aside like a cigarette butt. 

“Oh God, Dean… Why? Why?” sobbed Lisa, crawling over to Ben’s body using her good arm. She laid on top of him, protectively, crying through shuddering, panicked breaths. Dean crouched down next to her and she jerked away fearfully.

“You tricked me into thinking we could be a family,  _ babe _ .” Dean intoned quietly, with a edge of malice on the last word. Tears began to well up in his eyes. “You should have listened. You should have let me stay gone,” he said through gritted teeth. Dean’s arm burned as he reached for the vase that had dropped on the floor, and he brought it up above his head with both hands, preparing to bring it down with lethal force.

Suddenly, the room darkened and Dean heard a crackling and a whoosh of wings behind him. “ _ Dean _ ,” said an authoritative, gravelly voice that Dean felt deep in his guts, “put that down.” From his periphery, Dean saw a shadowy arm reach toward him, and felt the cool, staticky touch of two fingers on his temple. “It will be okay.”

 

Dean bolted upright in bed, his heart thudding in his chest surging battery acid through his veins as he struggled to get his bearings. In his panicked haze he fought to discern his location. He brought his shaking hands to his face and then pulled back suddenly when he touched wetness. He’d been crying. He’d been asleep, and dreaming, and crying. He was decidedly not okay.

Dean turned and pulled his legs out over the side of the bed, pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, and gently rocked back and forth. He thought of Ben, of his lifeless bloodshot eyes. The tears came faster. In the dimness of the single overhead light, Dean caught sight of the half-empty bottle of bourbon on his desk. With the blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders, Dean shuddered to a standing position and shuffled to the desk. He lifted the bottle with two shaking hands and unscrewed the cap. He stood up and drank deeply, chugging the bottle and letting the burning, familiar warmth fill his stomach. He pulled the near-empty bottle away from his mouth and gagged, but held  down his medicine. Within a minute, his shaking subsided significantly.

_ What the fuck is wrong with me? _ Dean thought bitterly. 

He placed the bottle on the floor by his bed, laid back down, and curled into a ball on his side. As he drifted off into blackness, he thought he imagined a low voice whisper, “It is okay. I am here.”

A fluttering of wings, and then Dean was asleep.


	2. Home, Sweet Home

Dean stood in a clearing, surrounded by creaking pines straining against gusts of wind that sent them twisting and thrashing, trying to escape something he could not see. The sickly pallor of the low-hanging clouds leaked through the whipping branches as Dean turned in a circle, disoriented, counting the trunks that closed in around him like the bars of a cage. His wide eyes reflected the mossy coloring of his surroundings. The wind and the trees roared and wailed, and Dean could hear their warning. Suddenly, the ground dropped out from beneath him and he was falling, falling, down, down, through blackness, and then silence, and then he was there.

_ The Pit.  _

The sounds of the storm had transmuted into the sound of electricity, roaring and crackling, punctuated with agonized screaming and pleading in the distance. The sound of rending limbs and tearing flesh filled his ears. The cold, wet air that had been blowing across Dean’s face turned into a dry blistering heat, and he could feel his skin sting and crackle, flake off and blow away. Just as fast as he disintegrated, his body renewed itself. The cycle of Hell was one of destruction and rebirth. Just when you thought the suffering was over, it would begin again just as torturous as when you first arrived.

_ Sammy. _

Sam was strapped down to a table directly to Dean’s left, his steaming body crackling with electricity, struggling desperately against the thick chains and rusty hooks that tethered him to the table. His long, chestnut hair was matted to the sides of his face with dried blood, his eyes wide and terrified. He whimpered as the tears streaming down his face vaporized in the charged air, the sweat steaming off his body rose into the air on a thermal current, illuminated by a soft blue glow without a source, up toward a ceiling that didn’t exist and out toward walls that neither began nor ended. In the distance, lightning flashed and a crack of thunder shook the table.

Dean looked down at his right hand and was unsurprised when he saw the long, rusted razor blade clasped in his palm. He enjoyed the weight of the handle. His green eyes flashed as he slowly moved his hand back and forth, savoring the balance of the blade and the warm, tingling familiarity of its electrical charge. It felt bonded to him, merely an extension of his arm rather than a tool. The corner of his mouth turned up into a barely perceptible smirk. 

_ He was home. _

As he walked closer toward Sam, he could hear his brother sputter, “D-dean… p-please… you don’t have to do this…”

“Do what, Sammy?” Dean’s voice intoned. Another smirk. This felt good, better than he remembered. He savored his brother’s panicked desperation. He began slowly walking around the table, looking over his shoulder and down at his brother, trailing the fingers of his left hand along the length of the chains that bound and stretched Sam. 

_ How pathetic _ , thought Dean. “When I’m done with you,” he growled, “you’ll wish your soul was back in the cage, on fire, with Lucifer.” He bent down and leaned into Sam’s face, tracing the edge of the blade along the contour of his brother’s jaw, and whispered, “When I’m done with you, you won’t remember how to scream.”

Another crack of thunder, much closer this time, caused Dean to jump back and drop his blade. The air around him tingled with ozone. He felt a strong grip of a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around so that he was face-to-face with a dark silhouette, with piercing blue eyes glowing from under a furrowed brow, and the shadow of two huge wings crackling with static, stretching at least 8 feet wide behind. Darkness emanated from the silhouette, obscuring the blue glow that lit the room as it closed in on Dean, surrounding him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Dean,” growled a low voice that emanated from the dark shadow, its timbre burning deep into Dean’s guts. “This is not you.” The blue eyes glowed brighter, two gas flames that burned brightly into Dean’s mind until all he saw were those flames against the darkness. 

It was Dean’s turn to cry. Waves of emotion, of guilt and rage and shame, self-loathing, cowardice, and spread across all a deep and endless loneliness. The tears steamed off his face, as quickly as they fell, and Dean dropped to his knees.

“You don’t understand,” he said, choking back a sob. You don’t know what I’ve done. Those I’ve hurt. I fuck up, and I push everyone away.” He swallowed hard, glancing desperately around, trying to make out something other than the blackness and the blue flames boring into him. 

There, on the floor, he saw the blade he had dropped. He lunged for it and brought it up to his neck, pressing it against his carotid artery until he could feel it start to break the skin. “You don’t know how this feels!” he screamed at the figure. “You aren’t in my head!”

The voice replied calmly with a flat affect and barely perceptible growl, “Of course I do, Dean. I am there right now.” Just then, the silhouette raised its arm and laid two fingers gently against Dean’s temple.

 

Dean was pulled violently up through a dark void and slammed back into reality, jerking awake to find himself alone in the living area, upright in the armchair, a late night infomercial for earrings serving as the only illumination. He could feel his heart beats crashing in his ears, his palms were sweating and ice cold. 

“What the fuck, what the fuck?” he rasped as he choked on fresh-flowing tears that streamed down his face and down the back of his throat. He rocked back and forth, his head in his hands.

He remembered Hell, what he’d done, what he was about to do. He remembered the angel, and the angel’s words. 

“This is not you.”

_ Another dream _ , he thought.  _ A nightmare.  _

Dean tipped his head backwards against the chair. He covered his face with his hands to block out the light from the muted television, trying to steady his breath and slow his heart.

_ If that isn’t me, then why do I keep going back? Why do I want to go back? _ he thought desperately. The tears kept coming, soaking the front of his shirt.

 

This was Dean’s seventh night terror in two weeks. He was petrified of sleeping, staying up well past Sam every night, and since his dream of Lisa and Ben, he’d been avoiding his bed altogether. He’d murdered Ben, mangled Bobby with a tire iron, let Benny be torn apart by Leviathans, set fire to his mother, cast his father into Purgatory, and flayed the skin off of Charlie’s arms, laughing as she begged him to stop. Tonight, exhaustion had won out, and he succumbed to the comfortable chair in the livingroom.

_ Sammy, I’m so sorry. _

Dean let his hands slowly drop into his lap. He rubbed his eyes and sniffed, and then reached for the remote to unmute the infomercial. Sleep was no longer an option. He did not see the figure in the shadowy corner of the room behind him, a dim blue light emanating from eyes firmly locked on Dean’s shaking body. The angel watched until his friend could breathe normally again, and then he vanished with a crackle and fluttering of feathers.


	3. When the Levee Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is significantly enhanced by a liberal application of Led Zeppelin's When the Levee Breaks. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOEQTJV_3-w

It was six o’clock in the morning. Dean stood in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee that had long gone cold since he brewed the pot at four AM. He stared vacantly down at the sink. Sam came around the corner in black jogging shorts and a maroon tee shirt, ready to go for his run. 

“Hey, Dean,” he said cheerfully. “You’re up early!” Dean did not respond. It was at that moment that Sam stopped and slowly looked his brother up and down.

“Yo, Dean. Dean?” No response from his brother, still cupping the mug, still vacant. Sam frowned, and slowly walked over toward his brother snapping his fingers. “Deeeaaaan? Dean Winchester? Can you hear me?”

Sam looked closer at his brother, and that’s when he noticed his knuckles. They were white from the force he was exerting on the mug, squeezing it so tightly that his hands tremored. Now that he was closer, he could see his brother’s glassy, bloodshot eyes, the rims red and puffy. His jaw clenched over and over. Every fiber of his body was tightened to the breaking point.

Sam tried one more time. “...Dean…?” He laid a hand lightly on his brother’s shoulder and Dean unleashed an agonized, terrified scream. In one movement he slammed his mug to the ground, exploding cold coffee and shards of pottery like a shrapnel bomb, then turned toward his brother, slamming him up against the refrigerator and pinning him there with his forearm. His breath came out in ragged gasps as his eyes darted and scanned his brother, and then as quickly as he had attacked Sam he pulled away.

“Fuck, Sammy, I’m sorry…” Dean mumbled, eyes cast down and hands shaking. He slowly backed away.

“What the hell, Dean?!” Sam cried out incredulously. “ Are you okay?” He strode toward his retreating brother on his long legs and Dean raised one hand palm out.  
“Don’t come closer, Sam. I’m not… doin’ so good.” Dean’s voice was not much more than a croaked whisper. Tears sprang from the corners of his eyes. 

Sam felt completely helpless. He had rarely ever seen his brother cry. To Sam, crying was about opening up and acknowledging his feelings so he could fix problems and move forward. Dean’s rigid sense of gender norms precluded such catharsis. Simply put, Dean saw tears as weakness, and weakness meant he couldn’t care for others. Saving people, hunting things. The family business.

“I’m not sleeping,” Dean finally quietly admitted with a sniff. “I’m having nightmares, except they aren’t. They’re memories. Memories where I am the bad guy, not the good guy.” Dean paused, seeming unable to find the words. “I’m the… I’m the monster.”

“Dean,” Sam said carefully, “you are not a monster. You are the best man I know, and my brother.”

“If I’m such a good man,” Dean muttered to the floor, “then why did I break that mug? Why did I attack you? You should…” Dean’s bloodshot eyes rose to meet Sam’s. “You should stay away.”

With that, Dean stumbled out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room, bracing himself against the wall with his right hand. Sam could hear the bedroom door slam shut. He stood perfectly still and continued to listen. He heard the volume of Dean’s stereo crank up, blaring Led Zeppelin IV.

 

_ If it keeps on rainin' levee's goin' to break, _

_ If it keeps on rainin' levee's goin' to break, _

_ When the levee breaks I'll have no place to stay. _


	4. Enter the Angel

“And then he just left?” Castiel asked calmly, though Sam could see concern in his bright blue eyes under scrunched eyebrows. “Did he say where he was going?”

 

Sam had not gone out running as planned. He thought it best to stay at the bunker, keep a watchful eye on Dean, because, frankly, this behavior scared the shit out of him. He’d never seen his brother so emotionally shredded, so unable to keep himself composed. Sure, he’d seen anger, rage, possession, but then he’d just go back to being tough, stoic Dean again. He posted up on the couch with a book on the geological history of Kansas as it pertained to laylines and waited, listened. It wasn’t longer than an hour before the music abruptly ended and Dean stormed out of his room, throwing his jacket on, keys in hand.

“Dean, man, where are you--”

“Out. Need to clear my head.”

And then he was gone.

Sam paced through the main floor of the bunker, running his long fingers through his hair anxiously. He didn’t have a car, couldn’t pursue. Could Dean be in danger? If this was some sort of spell, or curse, perhaps he could research it. But he’d need help. He clasped his hands together. “Cas, if you can hear me, I could really use your help with something. It’s Dean. He’s--”

And with a whoosh and a flutter, Castiel was there right in front of him, only a few feet away. His dark hair was in its normal state of perpetual bed-head. He was stubbly, and looked tired. His tan trench coat hung heavily over his rumpled, charcoal suit, and his brow was furrowed.

 

“He just said he was going out, Cas. Out to ‘clear his head’, whatever that means. I’m worried it’s a curse. I was thinking I could start with the Reinhold text and you could help me by looking through the Witches’ Annuals for something--”

Castiel cut him off. “Sam, I do not think this is a curse.”

Sam cocked his head slightly. “Wait, is there something you know that I don’t?”

“Well, Sam, I am not a doctor, but--”

“Cas, you aren’t even a human,” Sam ribbed lightly.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed, “Sam, are you asking me for help? Or to be the butt of a joke?”

“Fuck, sorry Cas,” Sam quickly apologized. “I am just nervous and frankly freaked out. Just a bad Winchester defense mechanism. ”

“Of which I am intimately acquainted,” Castiel added dryly. “As I was saying, I am not a doctor, but I can tell you that Dean is processing some emotions, emotions he has not allowed himself to sit with and analyze.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sam. “Emotions about what?”

“Sam, can you recall any extended period of time over the last ten years where neither you nor Dean were in mortal peril?” Castiel stepped closer to Sam, and his voice lowered. “Where you did not hurt people, intentionally or unintentionally? Where your choices did not result in the loss of those close to you? Where the fate of your world did not rest either directly or tangentially on your shoulders?” 

Sam crossed one arm across his torso to grasp the other and looked away from Castiel’s icy gaze. “What are you saying, Cas? Do you think Dean is having a mental breakdown?”

“I do not think that, Sam. I know that.”

“Is this some sort of angelic intuition?” Sam asked. He looked back up to Castiel, whose expression had softened and saddened. 

“Partly. I have a bond with Dean, and in times of severe distress I can sense his… mental disquiet. Two weeks ago he had a... I believe they are called ‘night terrors’.” Castiel persed his lips and exhaled through his nose. Sam could tell he was trying to find the right words.

“So, you could hear his nightmares? Is that what you are saying, Cas?” Sam tried to not let worry creep into his voice.

“Not just hear. See. I was in his nightmare,” Castiel cast his eyes down. His voice softened to a husky whisper. “I could feel that he needed help. I had to help. But… one cannot just will their way into another person’s dreams. Not without their consent.” Castiel brought his hand up and ran it through his hair absently and looked down. “I forced myself in.”

Sam shook his head, struggling to take it all in. “So… did you mind-rape my brother? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I do not know, Sam.” Castiel looked up at Sam, eyes wet. Sam was reeling, he’d never seen Castiel look sorrowful before. “ He was in such pain, and I thought… I thought if I could see what was happening that I could stop it.” Castiel’s voice ended on a hard edge.

Sam took a step toward his friend and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. “What did you see, Cas? What did you do?”

“I saw horrors, Sam.” Castiel blinked hard. “I saw Dean hurt, maim, and murder. I saw him enjoy it. I saw him hating himself, hurting himself. I saw him crying and screaming in mental anguish.” He leaned into Sam’s hand on his shoulder. “I cannot take a full form in his dream, not without his consent. All I am is a shadowy presence, but I can muster up enough corporeality near the end to wake him. I can say a few words.” Castiel turned a half step away from Sam and Sam let his hand drop. “It’s possible my presence has gone unnoticed.”

Sam struggled to find language. He was gobsmacked. His brother wasn’t possessed, or cursed, or magicked in any way. He was sad. Fucking depressed. He was melting down.

“Is that why you look like shit, Cas?” Sam asked incredulously. “Late night patrols guarding Dean from his own inner demons?”

Castiel looked straight at Sam, into Sam. “Your brother needs to talk about his feelings.”

Sam replied, “Cas, you know that isn’t how Dean works. He’s incapable. If he could talk about his feelings, do you think…” Sam trailed off.

“Do I think what, Sam?” Castiel replied softly, head tilted slightly.

“Do you think you’d need to ask his permission for anything?” Sam exclaimed. “If he could just be honest about how he feels? About how he feels about you?! I mean, shit, Cas! You watch him while he sleeps! You rescue him from his own mind monsters!” Sam was worked up, nearly hopping in frustration. “You take care of him and have always taken care of him and he can’t even articulate what that means to him!” Sam slowed himself, paused, and took a deep breath. “Cas,” he said somberly, “how can we expect him to open up about these inner demons he hates when he can’t even acknowledge the angel he loves?” 

Castiel went silent. Sam’s eyes widened and he continued, “Goddammit, Cas, not you, too!”

“Do not blaspheme, Sam,” said Castiel coldly, slowly.

 

“So, you don’t care about Dean?” Sam spat. Suddenly, the air crackled with ozone, and the room darkened. Two large shadows spread behind Castiel, as his blue eyes glowed fiercely. 

Then a deep, gravelly voice echoed through the room, the bunker, possibly the entire state.

“DO NOT QUESTION MY LOVE FOR DEAN WINCHESTER.”


	5. Caffeine

Dean gripped the steering wheel of his Baby tightly, painfully. He drove fast with the windows down, praying the autumn air would keep his senses from dulling. He gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead, unblinking. He did not know where he was going, he just knew he couldn’t stay home. Couldn’t bear to stare at his bed and remember all of him crimes. He needed to be doing something, anything. _Just stay awake, Dean_ , he reassured himself. 10 more miles and he’d be in town.

Dean pulled the Impala up to a convenience store. _Caffeine_ , he thought, _caffeine is what I need_. He tried his best not to stagger into the shop. He headed straight back to the cold cases where the energy drinks were stored. He grabbed an armful of something in a silver can that said “Ultra” and “240 mg Caffeine”, and then dumped the lot of them on the clerk’s counter unceremoniously. He grabbed a handful of energy shots and put them on the pile as well.

“Hey, uh, pal…” Dean struggled to find the words through his haze. “Do you, uh, have any caffeine pills?”

“Uh, yeah dude, hold on…” the young clerk said without looking up from his smartphone. He turned around behind the counter and called back, “Uh, how many packs you want?”

“All of them,” Dean slurred.

“What?” the kid said, turning back around. He made eye contact with Dean. “Fuck, dude, are you okay? You look like shit.”

“Just gimme the damn pills,” Dean mumbled.

The clerk loaded up the haul into two plastic bags. Dean slammed down a $20 and a $10 and hurried to the Impala as fast as possible. Once safely inside, he ripped open one of the boxes of pills and downed two of them with one of the “Ultra” beverages. He chugged all sixteen ounces of it, and then followed it with one of the energy shots. He grimaced and shook his head, unaccustomed to the sour taste.

 _Okay Dean_ , he muttered to himself, _where to now?_ He put the Impala in gear pulled out of the driveway, only to slam on his breaks to avoid the biker he’d failed to notice. He leaned forward toward the steering wheel and cursed into the back of his hand. “Fuck, man, get it together.”

This time, he pulled out of the drive slowly, looking both ways twice, and turned toward town.


	6. Insecurities

“Cas! Castiel!” cried Sam, trying to be heard over the crackle of static and echoing boom of Castiel’s voice. “Cas, I’m sorry! I know!”

The darkness in the room lifted, and Castiel’s eyes returned to normal. He appeared again as merely a man, disheveled and sad. Tears welled in his eyes, and he tried to sniff them back in. “What, what is happening to me, Sam?”

Sam’s long legs brought him to Castiel quickly, and he embraced the angel, pulling him into his chest. “Cas, you are feeling sad.”

Castiel said nothing for a moment, just sniffed, then replied in a low voice, “I think this is different, Sam. I felt sad when my brothers and sisters died. I felt sad when humans died because of my failures. This… this hurts. This is not a feeling angels have.” Castiel gave Sam’s arm a squeeze and then stepped back from the younger Winchester. 

“No, Cas, I don’t think it is. It’s a feeling humans have. It’s… it’s like loneliness and helplessness and adoration all mixed together.” Sam swallowed hard. “You love him, don’t you?”

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “I know love. I love our Father. All angels do.”

Sam made eye contact with the angel, “Cas, aren’t you born with that love? It’s automatic. You didn’t choose to love God.” Sam sighed, “you choose to love my brother, and that’s why you feel so torn up inside. So helpless. God’s love is a constant. Dean’s love is… hidden.”

Castiel didn’t say anything for a while. Sam let him. Sam’s mind was reeling with the possibilities and implications. He’d known Dean’s feelings for Cas for years, but what could he do? Dean would never talk about it. And even if he could talk about it, what could he do about it? Start a relationship with an alien from another dimension who also, by the way, inhabited a male vessel?

Castiel finally broke in, “Sam, my feelings for your brother are... impossible to rectify. The best I can do is continue to care for him and guard him,” he said as he composed himself. “We need a plan. He looked directly into Sam’s eyes, “I need his permission to enter his dreams. I believe I can help him recognize these manifestations to be emotions that he can process and let go.”

“What would that look like, exactly?” asked Sam.

“He’d need to give me permission to enter his dreams”, Castiel said in a low, quiet voice. “He’d then need to go to sleep. Before, when I would force my way in, it was like moving through a viscous medium, and I couldn’t take my full form. I was a shade, and it took all my effort to corporealize long enough to take him out of it.” Castiel ran his hand up through his dark hair, and looked sadly into Sam’s brown eyes. “He fought me, Sam. Parts of him didn’t want me there. He wanted to be where he was, do what he did. He is coming undone.”

“He’s writing a narrative where he is the villain,” Sam interjected. “And you’re worried he’s going to start believing it.”

“Yes, that is my fear,” Castiel replied sadly. “If I can enter his dream with his permission, he’ll see me as I am, in my true form.”

“So you’d look like you, not a shade?”

“No, Sam. He would see me. My wings, my real voice. I would appear softened, muted by his subconscious, but he would see me for what I am.” Castiel’s voice sounded tense with anxiety as he continued, “I fear it will overwhelm him. I fear he will be... afraid of me.”

“But,” Sam added hopefully, “it’s the only way to get him to talk through this.”

“Yes,” Castiel replied quietly. “If I can show him that he’s not the man he thinks he is, but instead the man--”

“That you love?” Sam finished the sentence. No one said anything for a moment.

“Yes, Sam. That.”

Sam turned and walked toward the hallway, “lemme throw on some actual pants. I have some ideas about where he might go.”


	7. Dreamboat Annie

When Dean got to town, he still hadn’t figured out where to go. It was still early morning. The bars weren’t open. In fact, the only thing that was open was the diner.

_ Maybe some bacon and eggs would clear my head _ , thought Dean.  _ And some ham. And pie. _

He got out of the car and pushed at the door of the restaurant. Nothing. Door wouldn’t budge. He pushed again, harder. Still nothing.  _ Am I too early? _ he thought. He shoved harder, kicked the door in frustration and turned around to walk back to the Impala.

“Aaagh!” he hollered in exasperation, just as an elderly couple pushed open the door from the inside, eying him warily as their shuffled toward their Lincoln Continental.

Dean tried to compose himself as he pulled open the door to the restaurant and walked in. He grabbed a copy of Auto Trader from the rack in the vestibule. Not that he’d ever give away his Baby, he just liked looking at other people’s inferior Impalas with a smug sense of satisfaction.

He knew he looked terrible as he walked in and took a seat in a two person booth near the bathroom. Patrons who had heard the ruckus outside watched him slide down into his seat, and he could see their judgemental stares from his peripheral vision. 

“Fuck ‘em’,” muttered Dean to himself, shaky hands struggling to turn the pages of the menu.

“Ahem,” cleared the throat of the waitress who stood before him, pad and pencil in hand.

_ Fuck, how long had she been standing there? _ thought Dean in a panic. “Uh, yeah, so… bacon and eggs. And a side of ham. Also, a slice of apple pie,” he said, eyes cast down and the table.

“You want toast with that, honey?” asked the waitress sympathetically. Dean glanced over and noticed that she was new. She was a gorgeous, androgynous 20-something, with an angular brunette bob. She was solidly built but graceful, looking out of place in her pastel polyester uniform and apron. She was not Dean’s usual type, but still beautiful, and she reminded him of someone, but in his daze he couldn’t quite recall who. At any rate, she was being nice to him, despite the fact that he was clearly not ok. She gave Dean a tiny smile, and said softly, “you look like you could use some coffee.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied gratefully. “Coffee would be good.”

The waitress came back with the coffee, which Dean took black and drank quickly despite it being very hot. He slammed the mug back down and waited for the refill, his body now coursing with stimulants after his his trip to the store. He began to feel spiders crawling up his spine and through his nerve endings. He blinked his wide eyes.  _ Good, this is good _ , he thought to himself. He could do this.  _ Just gotta stay up, keep busy until I can figure out what to do next _ . 

The waitress came back with his food, and a refill of coffee. He looked up and saw pity in her eyes. “Um, thanks, uh…” Dean’s eyes found her name tag. “Charlene.”

“No problem, hun,” she said softly and then turned and walked away. 

Dean looked down at the bounty before him, the smell stimulating his appetite despite all of the caffeine coursing through his veins. He grabbed his fork and knife, preparing to dig in and was suddenly hit with a blinding, flashing pain in his head, causing him to suck in air and drop his fork and knife. He brought his hands up to his face and pressed heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to push back the pain. Suddenly, the pain subsided, and he looked down at his food. Eggs, bacon, pie. Ham. He looked closer at the ham, something was wrong.

 

“Oh God,” he murmured. The ham wasn’t ham. It looked like skin. Like a piece of pale white, flayed skin. He could make out what looked like the upper half of a Princess Leia tattoo.

“Char-charlie…?” he rasped. He shook his head back and forth, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to erase what he’d just seen. He opened his eyes again , and everything was as it was before. Ham. Pie. Normal.

Dean could feel the tears in his eyes, stinging his already overworked tear ducts. The guilt crashed over him like a storm surge, flooding him. He reached in his wallet and pulled out a $10,  _ no, better make it a $20 _ , he thought. He slammed it on the table and practically ran out of the restaurant. He made it back to the Impala and slumped against the trunk, heaving panicked breaths, tears uncontrollable.  _ Wow, those folks sure are getting a show today _ , Dean thought bitterly, struggling to regain control of his heart. His blood whooshed through his ears and he didn’t hear the crackle of static and flutter of feathers from around the side of the restaurant, and didn’t notice the crunch of gravel underfoot as Castiel and Sam approached Dean from either side of the Impala. They came up to him in near unison, each placing a hand on Dean’s shoulders. His response was electric. He shot up and back and fell backwards on the gravel, scooting in reverse on his hands, wild-eyed and terrified. 

“STAY AWAY! STAY BACK!” he screamed, voice cracking with terror. He tried to scramble to his feet but his legs couldn’t seem to stay under him. Instead, he brought his knees up to his chin, wrapping his leather-clad arms around his shaking body, and sobbed. “Please, you gotta help me,” he choked. “Something’s wrong with me.”

Sam and Castiel looked at one another and Sam saw genuine anguish in Castiel’s eyes. Castiel’s lips were parted slightly, and with a sigh he took two steps forward and knelt down next to his panicking friend. 

“Don’t--stop--Cas--” Dean stuttered as Castiel reached out toward him.

I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel said sadly, and then he touched the side of Dean’s head, causing him to immediately slump to the ground.

“Jesus, Cas,” mumbled Sam. “What did you do to him?”

“He was… I believe ‘unhinged’ is an appropriately descriptive term,” replied Castiel as he continued to kneel by his friend. “He’s unconscious now.”

“Is he… can he dream? Is this the best idea, putting him to sleep?” Sam looked worried.

Castiel looked up toward Sam with a thoughtful look. “I do not sense he is dreaming, but it is imperative that we get him back to the bunker immediately. We can come back for the car.”

Sam nodded, and knelt down next to his brother. Castiel took both brothers by the hand and with a whoosh they found themselves back in the bunker, tingling with static, Dean on the floor in the main room, Sam and Castiel kneeling on either side.

“Help me move him to the couch,” Castiel asked, not that he needed it. Sam knew the angel was shockingly strong but it did help Sam to feel useful. They laid Dean lengthwise, and propped his head up with a couple of pillows.

Sam stood and ran both hands through his long, chestnut brown hair. “Okay, can we wake him now?” Castiel nodded and placed his hand on the side of Dean’s face.

Dean bolted upright, gasping for air. His eyes flew around the room until they met his brother’s, who knelt down next to him and clasped both of Dean’s hands in his. “Breathe, Dean. Breathe. It’s okay,” he tried to reassure his brother, but Castiel could see fear in Sam’s face, too. 

“Where the hell, what…” Dean trailed off. Then he whimpered, “what happened?”

“Castiel knocked you out, “Sam explained. “You were having a panic attack or something. You left this morning and I called Cas for help. When we found you, you were going berserk.” Sam looked up at Castiel, whose eyes had fired up behind an otherwise cool expression. “Cas, you gotta tell’m what you told me.” 

Castiel’s eyes flared as he tilted his head slightly in a way that Sam knew meant,  _ how much _ ?

“You have been having night terrors, Dean,” said Castiel, flatly. He did not want to let his feelings… complicate the mission. 

“No shit, ya think?” spat a red-eyed, exhausted Dean. 

Castiel could not help but to look hurt. He did hurt, badly, both for Dean and for himself. Dean got into the situation to begin with because of a gendered need for stoicism and a learned penchant for repression, as well as a unhealthy dose of toxic masculinity. Human emotions were relatively new for Castiel. His main models for exhibiting said emotions were Dean and Sam. He knew how he felt, but did not know how to wear it. He was not a soldier of Heaven anymore, he was a civilian. 

“Dean,” he sadly replied, blue eyes pale under a furrowed brow, “have you been remembering your dreams?”

Dean rubbed his eyes with the back of one of his hands and then looked up at his angel friend, “Sorry, Cas. I’m sorry. Yeah.” He yawned and shook his head. “Remembering ‘em does not quite fucking capture it. I’m reliving them. Seeing things.”

“Do you remember waking up from your dreams?” Castiel asked, taking a step forward toward Dean as Sam stood and stepped back.

Dean paused a moment, then said, “Yeah, Cas. I remember a black shadow reaching out to me.” Dean swallowed hard. “The shadow spoke to me, telling me it was going to be okay.”

“That was Cas!” Sam exclaimed excitedly. Castiel whipped his head toward Sam, eyes like daggers that subdued his enthusiasm effectively. 

“Wait, you were in my head, man?” Dean said incredulously. Castiel’s face fell. He knew at that moment he had crossed a line that no one warned him about. He had hurt his friend. 

“I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel said, his gravelly voice soft, yielding. “I just wanted to help. I thought that if I… I could wake you up…” He trailed off. 

Dean could tell he had said something wrong. Castiel just told him that he had fucking  _ saved  _ him in his sleep, stopped him from doing the most depraved things, from tearing himself apart. And here he was now, in person, doing the exact same thing.

“Cas,” he broke in earnestly, “you saved me.” Castiel’s face changed, softened. “Please don’t be sorry.” He made eye contact with the angel, green eyes pooling into blue, breath soft and rapid, lips barely parted. For a moment he forgot about his brother standing off to the side, forgot that he was the scum of the earth unworthy of love or trust. He forgot to be strong. Locked in Castiel’s gaze he felt… adoration.

Sam cleared his throat, and both Dean and Castiel blinked a few times, and Castiel started in again.

“Dean, you saw me as a shadow, a shade. I could not corporealize in your mind because I…” Castiel trailed off.

“You what, Cas?” probed Dean. 

“I did not have your permission to be there in the first place. I was surprised I could get in at all. I could sense your suffering. I knew you would not want to talk about your dreams. I did not know what else to do so I… forced my way in.” Castiel’s eyes were downcast, full of shame. “I think that, if you could find a way to trust me, I could go back in and help you more effectively.”

“Cas, it’s okay,” Dean said. “You were trying to help. You did help.”

Sam chimed in. “Yeah, Cas, things would have gotten a lot worse a lot faster had you not stepped in.” He had his hands clasped behind his back, trying to look casual but secretly roiling inside, agog at the fact that his brother was actually talking about his feelings for the first time in, well, ever. 

“So then, what’s next?” asked Dean.

Castiel spoke plainly, confidently, feeling self-possession after having his guilt lifted by Dean’s appreciation. “I need your permission to join you in your dream. If I am there, I can help you deal with your… demons. I can remind you who you are, and where you are, and WHAT you are.”

“And what exactly am I, Cas?” Dean inquired, his deep voice soft and and finally calm. 

Without a beat, Castiel replied, “You are the human man I raised from Perdition with whom I share a profound bond. You are my friend.”

Dean smiled, green eyes shining through puffy, red rims. “Okay then, Dreamboat Annie, how do we do this?”


	8. Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 8, 9, and 10 are written with Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven serving as a soundtrack. Not required listening, but certainly fun.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pPvNqOb6RA

Dean sat down on the edge of his bed and shuddered. _When all of this is done_ , Dean thought, _I’m gonna pick out a new room_.

Sam carried in a folding chair and set it up on one side of the bed. Castiel pulled the rolling desk chair over to the other side of the bed.

“Why does this feel like an intervention?” joked Dean, weakly.

Sam smiled. “Because it is one, dude.”

“Dean, you need to try and get comfortable, “ Castiel said as he sat down in the desk chair. Remove your shoes, perhaps? Would you like a blanket?”

“Nah, I’m fine Cas,” Dean said as he tugged off his boots. “Maybe some music? That usually helps.”

Sam strode over to the stereo and started looking through Dean’s extensive audio cassette collection.

Dean pulled his legs up onto the bed as Castiel rolled the chair a little closer. Castiel looked straight into Dean’s eyes and got caught there. He swallowed.

“Dean, I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean said softly.

“If you let me in, you will… see me differently. I will no longer be a shade.”

“That’s the idea, right?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean… Dean Winchester, you will see ME. All of me. My real form. It will be filtered significantly by your subconscious, so I do not believe I will blind or deafen you…”

“Wait, what?” Dean’s voice was edged with concern. “Blind? Deaf? Should I be worried?”

“No, Dean, it is okay,” Castiel reassured. He rested a hand on one of the arms Dean had crossed over his chest. “This is not without precedent. My concern is that I will frighten you. Dreams are raw. Barriers are bent, broken, or non-existent.”

“I’ve seen ‘Big Bad Castiel’, and I’ve seen worse.” It was Dean’s turn to reassure his angel. “You have my permission, Cas. Bring it on.” He smiled weakly, and heard the sound of a cassette being inserted into stereo. With a click, a very familiar guitar strain floated through the room, followed by flute.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Really, Sam? Really? Stairway?” Dean groaned.

_There's a lady who's sure,_

_All that glitters is gold,_

_And she's buying a stairway to heaven._

“What?” Sam shrugged. “It seemed appropriate.”

“It has a pleasant tune,” Castiel commented.

“Well, if the angel approves, then I guess Zepp it is,” muttered Dean amusedly.

“Lay back, Dean,” purred Castiel reassuringly. “Try to relax.”

_In a tree by the brook_

_There's a songbird who sings_

_Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiving_

Dean was worried, but he was also tired. Exhausted. But Sammy was there, and Castiel had a plan. It was beginning to become difficult to keep his eyes open. 

_Ooh, it makes me wonder,_

_Ooh, it makes me wonder._  

Dean let his defensive posture relax, letting his arms fall to his sides. Sam took a seat in the folding chair on the other side of the bed.

“Sammy,” Dean murmured as his eyes drooped, “are you just gonna watch me sleep all creepy-like?” A smile crept across his face as Castiel winced.

“Ouch,” mouthed Sam to his angel friend.

_In my thoughts I have seen,_

_Rings of smoke through the trees,_

_And the voices of those who standing looking._

And with that, Dean started to softly snore. Castiel looked upon him with pity. Castiel did not need sleep, but he knew fear, and he knew exhaustion, and he knew his Dean had endured more than enough of both.

“Now what?” whispered Sam, not wanting to disturb his brother.

Castiel did not raise his protective gaze up from Dean. “Now we wait for him to dream.”

“How will you know when it starts?” Sam asked.

“I will be able to feel it. His suffering. Then I will join him. Time passes much more quickly in a dream than when one is conscious, so Dean may experience many things before I can find him.”

“Like in Hell,” Sam added.

“Correct,” Castiel replied, still looking down at his friend. “And even if he starts dreaming, I will not know to join him until it becomes… emotional.”

“Will you be asleep, too?” Sam wondered aloud. “What happens if something goes wrong?”

“I will not be asleep, but I will not be fully present here. You should be able to rouse me if need be.”

_Yes, there are two paths you can go by,_

_But in the long run,_

_There's still time to change the road you're on._

Castiel’s eyes flicked up to meet Sam’s. “It is starting.” With that, Castiel sat up, closed his eyes, and Sam resigned himself to waiting.


	9. The Motel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 8, 9, and 10 are written with Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven serving as a soundtrack. Not required listening, but certainly fun.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pPvNqOb6RA

Dean woke up in his bed in the motel room, confused. _Where am I_ , he thought. _Did it work? Am I better? Where the hell is Cas?_

He threw the blankets off and stepped out of the bed. He was wearing his blue boxer briefs and nothing else. As he searched around for his clothes, his muscles rippled in the low light from the bedside lamp. Staticky music played through a clock radio on the bedside table, a red 12:00 blinking in unison with a familiar tune Dean couldn’t quite place. It was dark outside, and stormy too by the sound of it. He could hear the wind suffering through the trees and the sound of rain slamming the pavement and the roof above. He saw a flash of lightning slice through a crack in the curtain and a boom of thunder echoed through the parking lot. Just then he heard the toilet flush in the bathroom and water running in the sink. He froze, not knowing what to do, and then out walked Cas.

Castiel, Angel of the fucking Lord, stood before him. He was lit from behind by the bathroom light, a sickly halogen halo highlighting his perpetually mussed hair. He wore nothing but a pair of white boxers. His blue eyes glowed intensely as a grin spread across his face. Dean could see toned muscles sliding over his slim body. Cas ran a hand across his face, licked his full lips, and purred in his low, gravelly voice, “Hello, lover.”

Dean froze, thunderstruck. He kept opening his mouth like a goldfish struggling to breathe, unable to reconcile what he saw with his existing paradigm. _Is this what Cas meant?_ Dean struggled to form coherent thoughts. _About his true form?_

Castiel slowly took as step forward toward Dean who was still frozen in place. “Yes, Dean. This is exactly what I meant,” Castiel said, blue eyes flashing mischievously.

“Ca-can you hear what I’m thinking?” Dean stuttered.

Suddenly, Dean’s head was filled with with a husky, wanton voice that he could feel resonating within every cell of his body.

_Dean, we ARE what you are thinking._

Dean’s breath quickened as Castiel took another step forward, close enough to touch. Dean felt the air between them crackle with ozone, causing all of the hairs on the back of his neck to stand straight up.

“Cas,” Dean swallowed hard, “I don’t understand. Why are you, why are we…?”

Castiel took a final step forward, and grazed the back of his hand along the length of Dean’s arm. A sensation Dean had never felt prior rocketed through his body, charging him, filling in every gap, every chink. “I am here to show you what kind of man you are, Dean,” Castiel said, softly, and then he bit the corner of his lower lip. Everything about him, his posture, his tone, _those eyes_ , screamed sex. It was all Dean could do to not succumb to the magnetic attraction that pulled fervently on his soul.

Dean had never seen Cas like this before, could never have imagined it. He loved Cas, his angel. They had seen each other at their best, but also their worst. At their weakest and most vulnerable. Castiel was the only being, living or dead, who had seen his soul for what it was: broken, useless, flawed. Dean knew they could never be together. It would be too complicated, too messy. He’d never been with a man, but then Cas was not a man. Cas was an angel, and as such deserved so much more than a broken, emotionally stunted husk of a human.

Castiel leaned in, mere inches separating their chests, and Dean ached. Every fiber of his being wanted nothing more than to launch forward, tackling Castiel into the wall, feeling skin on skin. Dean could see shadowy wisps trailing off his friend’s sinewy body, abs rippling down to hipbones that begged to meet Dean’s.

“Let me show you what kind of man you are,” Castiel murmured into Dean’s ear, his cool breath tingling the side of his face, and with that, Dean was undone. Another flash of lightning caused the lights to dim and then the clock radio grew louder, filling the room.

 

 _And as we wind on down the road,_   
_Our shadows taller than our soul,_   
_There walks a lady we all know,_   
_Who shines white light and wants to show,_ _  
How everything still turns to gold._

 

Their bodies collided in a tangle of desperation and want. Dean could feel Castiel’s searching hands kneading the muscles of his back, searching for purchase. Dean brought his hands up the back of Cas’ neck and into his silky black hair as they stood, foreheads pressing against one another, breathing heavily and sharing the air between them. Dean’s loins ached and he could feel Cas reciprocate as he pushed his pelvis forward. Then, in a show of strength, Castiel shoved Dean backwards to the bed and commanded in a deep voice that reverberated through Dean’s mind, _lay down_. Dean immediately complied, muscles shaking as he positioned his head on a pillow.

“Do you want to know what kind of man you are, Dean Winchester?” intoned Castiel as his eyes narrowed. Dean nodded, weakly. Castiel bent forward over Dean’s face, his beautiful blue eyes fading. He whispered, “You are worthless.” A maniacal grin spread across Castiel’s face as terror rose in Dean’s throat. He saw his angel’s eyes suddenly swallowed by blackness.

In a panic, Dean tried to get up from the bed but found himself unable to move. His heart started to pound, bile rising in his throat. This was not his Cas, this was something else, something malevolent.

“Do you know why I raised you from Perdition, Dean?” smirked the doppelganger.

“You're not Cas, you son of a bitch! You didn’t raise shit! Where is he?” Dean was frantic.

“Of course I am Castiel,” he chuckled. “I’m the angel of your dreams, Dean. Here to save you from yourself. Little did I know, there was nothing worth saving.”


	10. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 8, 9, and 10 are written with Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven serving as a soundtrack. Not required listening, but certainly fun.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8pPvNqOb6RA

Darkness enveloped the forest that wind and rain threatened to tear apart. A crack of lightning scorched across the sky into a clearing, and in it appeared a glowing figure crouched low to the ground. The figure slowly stood, emanating a radiant light from the core of its being. Its features were difficult to discern, but one could make out a silhouette of a long billowing trench coat and glowing blue eyes aflame with intent. Behind the figure stretched two huge, inky black wings crackling with electricity, pulsing with the rainbow sheen of an oil slick, feathers blowing wildly in the swirling wind and rain.

 _Dean. Where are you?_ thought Castiel, Angel of the Lord.

Castiel was confused. When he had visited Dean before, he had appeared directly nearby. His light dimmed as he folded his wings behind him. “DEEAAAN!” He called out over the wind, searching for his friend. He could not sense his presence in the storm. He called out again, and then clutching his coat he pushed forward, through the trees.

This was not how it was supposed to work. Dean’s conscious mind let him in. He was here to help, with permission. Panic caught in the angel’s throat as he realized that, yes, Dean’s conscious mind gave permission, but his subconscious was a whole other beast, a beast whose hostility Castiel could feel washing over him in angry waves. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw something move, disappearing behind a tree.

“Dean!” Castiel called out. “Is that you?” His glow brightened as he moved toward the figure he glimpsed. “Let me help you!” He reached the tree and looked around it, blue tie flapping in the stinging rain. To his dismay, he saw no one. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit he had picked up from Dean. _Dean_ , he thought, _can you hear me?_

Suddenly, Castiel could feel electricity streak up his spine and throughout his body. Nearly losing control of his senses, he felt long, strong fingers stroke through the sensitive feathers of his left wing. His knees buckled at a touch he had never before experienced in any form. From his knees he looked up as the familiar silhouette of Dean Winchester stepped in front of him, a barely perceptible smile creeping onto his face.

“Cas,” said Dean lovingly, achingly. “You came for me.” Dean reached out his hand for Castiel’s and helped the angel up, and as Castiel felt the warm, calloused hand, his light grew brighter and his wings unfurled.

Still holding hands, Dean leaned into Castiel and whispered in his ear, “I can see you.”

Tears welled in the corners of Castiel’s eyes as he quavered, “Am I acceptable, Dean?”

Dean’s breath was hot on Castiel’s neck, overpowering the wind and the rain and the roar of the storm. “Angel, you’re beautiful.”

Castiel swallowed hard and nodded. He reached up to touch Dean’s head with his free hand but Dean caught it and brought it back down. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, and Dean had to yell over the wind.

“Not yet, Angel!” he shouted. “Let’s enjoy ourselves first! Aren’t I a good man? Don’t we deserve something nice?”

Castiel nodded weakly, overcome with emotion. He was here, with his human, close for the very first time after years of angst. Dean held his hand and led him through the woods, through the storm, and after a few minutes the trees thinned out and parted, and Castiel could see they were at the base of a large hill, atop of which was a building with many windows and doors, and a neon sign that pulsed “MOTEL” in large, yellow letters. Castiel could see a sliver of light through the slightly parted curtains of one of the windows, and over the wind and rain he could hear the faint strains of music.

  
_And if you listen very hard,_   
_The tune will come to you at last,_   
_When all are one and one is all,_ _  
To be a rock and not to roll._

Dean guided him to the shelter of a gazebo. The inside of the gazebo was somehow protected from the storm. The cold, stinging blasts of wind could not cut through whatever force shielded the two of them, and the inside was lit up by thousands of tiny fairy lights that pulsed softly to the beat of Castiel’s heart, and his own glow began to match the rhythm.

“Do you want this body, Angel?” growled Dean alluringly. Castiel nodded, wide blue eyes aflame.

“Tell me I am good,” Dean commanded authoritatively. He reached up to stroke Castiel’s wings, crackling with ozone and swirling with color, and Castiel braced himself for the blissful burn about to arrest his heart, but Dean stopped short. “Tell me you don’t deserve me.”

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel shuddered, head tilting back, long dark lashes fluttering. “I am not worthy.”

Dean closed the distance between them, enveloped in Castiel’s pulsing glow, lips brushing against his stubbly cheek. “Tell me you’ll stay here forever, with me. This will be our place.”

Castiel blinked and then blinked again. He pulled back slightly to look at Dean’s face, brows furrowed. “Dean, we cannot stay here, this is your dream. All dreams end.”

“Babe, we don’t ever have to leave,” Dean soothed. “You’re mine now, don’t you see?” Dean smiled and a table appeared, set for two, with hamburgers and pie and two beers. “It’s hamburgers and pie forever, Cas. Just you and me.”

Castiel cleared his throat. “There is more to life than hamburgers and pie, Dean.”

“Oh, you want more?” Dean asked mischievously. He snapped his fingers and the flannel shirt and jeans he’d been wearing vanished to reveal blue boxer briefs and nothing else. His toned body glowed in Castiel’s light, and he could see the handprint he had left on his friend when they had first met, when he had pulled Dean out of Hell.

“I am here just for you, Cas,” Dean said, plaintively. “Please don’t reject me.”

This was not the proud Dean Winchester Castiel knew. Dean did not bargain. He did not plead. He did not beg others to validate him. If Dean chose him, it would be out of genuine love and desire, not weakness. He would not want Castiel in this way. His glow began to dim and his gaze shifted up the hill toward the motel.

Castiel’s voice dropped low enough to scrape the earth itself, reverberating with righteousness. “You mistake me. You are not Dean.”

“Of course I am,” Dean purred. “Where do you think you are, exactly?”

“You are the worst of Dean. His faults. His insecurities. You are why he cannot let go.” Castiel’s voice was steeped in rancor.

Dean continued to smile and stepped toward Castiel, who backed against the railing of the gazebo. Suddenly, the force that had kept them warm and dry was gone and the storm cut straight through them both, extinguishing the fairy lights, disappearing the table and food. Dean remained unclothed and pressed himself into Castiel. The angel could feel Dean’s want for him through the leg of his pants. He shuddered with pleasure and revulsion. Castiel could feel Dean’s heart pulsing through the heat of his chest. He wrapped his hand around Castiel’s tie as he pulled closer, and then spat, ”If I am the worst of Dean Winchester, then what does that make you?” A large grin spread across the man’s face and he chuckled, shoving the angel to the ground.

With that, Dean’s posture shifted. His eyes were swallowed by darkness, and he paced around the angel aggressively. “You are nothing, Cas,” he shot venomously. His voice was filled with contempt, his lips curled into a sneer. “You came here to help? Look at you! You’re hopeless. Broken. Worse than me!” Castiel’s light dimmed, his wings faded into shadows. “You love Dean Winchester? And this is how you show it? You can’t even tell him from a shade.”

The wind picked up and howled even louder, lightning flashed, and thunder boomed as the shade shouted, “You know NOTHING of love, and you know NOTHING of Dean Winchester!”

Castiel’s mind swirled with righteous, inimitable anger. Slowly, he pulled himself to standing. As he rose, his glow returned, intensified until it was near blinding. His eyes exploded with blue, slicing through the darkness. He wings unfurled gloriously, filling the gazebo. His voice rumbled out, through the forest and up the hill, shaking the trees and the ground and the sky.

“DO NOT QUESTION MY LOVE FOR DEAN WINCHESTER.”


	11. Be a Good Boy

Dean couldn’t tear himself away from the bed, pinned by an invisible force emanating from the shade of Castiel. Castiel stalked around the bed, voice dripping with venom. “You’re a failure, Winchester. Everyone you love is gone. You’ve either killed them, left them, or pushed them away.” With that, the curling black tendrils of smoke roiling off the shade expanded and crept toward Dean, voluminous, taking the shape of huge wings, filling the room and flashing with electrical discharges. 

Dean fought back tears and tried to block out the thrum of the cloud and Castiel’s taunts. Castiel climbed on top of Dean, straddling him, running his strong, probing fingers along the contours of his abdomen, across his chest, and up the sides of his neck. He ran his fingers through Dean’s golden brown hair and pulled, hard, causing Dean to hiss as Castiel lifted his head up towards him. 

“Did you really think he could ever love you?” Castiel laughed cruelly. “Even if you were anything more that a wreck of a human, he’s an ANGEL.” Castiel’s face twisted into a wicked smile, black eyes wide, as he continued, “He’s on a whole other plane, Dean. Literally. He doesn’t care for you. He doesn’t know HOW to care for you. You don’t deserve him, and you know it.” With that, Castiel leaned in and pressed his lips against Dean’s with bruising intensity, and then left a fevered trail of kisses along his jawline and up to his ear. Dean felt wave after wave of guilt and sorrow crash into him as Castiel whispered, “I'm the closest you'll ever get to your angel, and even that is more than you deserve. He left you here, alone.” 

_ He’s not coming, is he? _ Dean despaired. The shade began to grind his hips into Dean, gripping his hair with inhuman strength. The dark clouds now surrounded them completely, electricity discharging and arching into Dean, tracing along his limbs like a violet wand, contracting his muscles painfully. 

“I’m glad you’re finally coming to your senses, love,” cooed the shade, letting Dean’s head drop back onto the bed. “You don’t need him. I can be everything you need,” he winked with a sneer. “We can stay here together. I’ll even let you up, if you promise to be a good boy.”

Dean’s eyes stung with tears as he tried to blink away the ever deepening darkness. As they ran down his face, Castiel’s look transformed into one of wantonness. The shade dove forward and slid his tongue up the side of Dean’s cheek, savoring the salty evidence of Dean’s abject despondency. 

“Oh-okay,” Dean whispered, nodding weakly. “I’ll… I’ll be good.”

“Tell me you’re worthless,” the shade commanded.”Tell me the world is better off without Dean Winchester.”

Dean tried to reply, but choked on his words. He couldn’t believe Castiel, HIS Castiel, had left him here alone. Something must be wrong, he must be in trouble.

The shade started to cackle, his husky voice becoming shrill and grating. “Oh, my poor, wretched Dean! If the angel is in trouble, YOU are the one causing it! This is your head, remember?”

Suddenly, Dean heard a booming voice, cutting through the darkness, through the storm, through the cruel taunting of the shade. It was low, angry, and righteous. Dean felt it reverberating in his guts, and the sheer power of it seemed to shrink back the darkness just enough for Dean to take a gasping, hopeful breath.

“DO NOT QUESTION MY LOVE FOR DEAN WINCHESTER.”


	12. Nice One, Sam

Sam hunched over in the folding chair, eyes flickering back and forth from his brother to the angel and again. He was hoping to see some sign of progress, some indication that things were alright. It had only been a few minutes, but Castiel had said that time in a dream moved much faster than in waking life. Something ought to be happening by now. The song had ended and the tape side was done, and so he just sat in silence. 

He began to run through the best and worst case scenarios in his head. Dean was ill, that was for certain, but if he could somehow talk to Castiel and fight his demons he’d wake up, same ol’ Dean. Snarky, full of a kind of endearing hubris. Steady and reliable. If Cas failed, and wasn’t able to help Dean, then what? Dean’s behavior had bordered on suicidal. He was a danger to himself and to others. Would Dean Winchester agree to therapy? Medication? He was far too proud, and possibly too far gone for those to be viable options.

Then there was the other scenario, the one where Castiel showed up and was able to help, and where they actually opened up about how they felt about one another. He knew how they both felt, even if they were too stupid or stubborn to act on it or even acknowledge it. Sam suspected they already knew as well, but were too wrapped up in pride, or machismo, or some sort of angelic code in which no one got to have any fun, ever. 

Sam never knew Dean to show interest in other men, but then again Dean had to grow up the strong one, the tough one, the caretaker. He had a gender role to fill that had plenty of room for tits, but precluded cock entirely. Sam had it easier, and while definitely MOSTLY straight he still took the occasional pleasure ogling slim, athletic men when he thought his brother wasn’t looking. 

Cas, though… Cas was different. While Cas did indeed inhabit a male vessel, and an exceedingly attractive one at that, he was in essence not a man at all. Sam felt at his core that theirs was not a physical attraction, but something deeper. Something having to do with the soul, and grace, and trust. Something Sam had never felt, only seen when he would watch the two of them together. The glances they shared, the faces they made, the lack of personal space. They way Dean would pray to Cas, and the way they stared at each other when they knew the other wasn’t looking.

Sam smiled to himself, hoping with every fiber in his being that somehow, some way, Dean and Cas would emerge from this happily. They were his family, albeit dysfunctional as hell, and they meant the world to him.  _ If only I could actually fucking help, _ thought Sam in frustration.

Then Sam got an idea. The metal chair squeaked as he stood up and walked back to the stereo. He rummaged through the cassettes, looking for something specific, something he knew to have a positive association for Dean, something that reminded Sam of both Dean and Cas together.

“Aha!” exclaimed Sam, once he found what he was looking for. Back in Black by AC/DC. He ejected Led Zeppelin and put it back on the shelf. As he looked over the new tape, trying to decide between side one and side two, he heard a whimper from behind. He turned to see his brother twitching, moaning in his sleep. Castiel’s head had slumped over, and a pained grimace darkened his face. 

_ It’s happening _ , Sam thought as worry began to creep up his spine. He looked back at the tape in his hand, flipped it over, and jammed it in the player.

“Let’s do this,” he said with conviction. He hit play.


	13. Back in Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goes well with Back in Black by AC/DC.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAgnJDJN4VA

Castiel’s light grew brighter and brighter as it concentrated around his torso, wings folding in as he flexed his muscles and closed his eyes. He could hear the deranged laughing of Dean’s shade.

“Do you really think you have power here, angel?” the shade cackled. “You are in MY house!”

With that, Castiel threw his arms out to his sides, chest heaving forward and wings exploding out from behind as he and the gazebo exploded in a blinding white blast. The shade disintegrated and blew away in an eruption of grace, and where the gazebo once stood there remained only one very angry, very determined angel standing upon a patch of scorched earth the size of an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The rain and wind had stopped, and the sky began to clear.

As Castiel centered himself, his ears began to fill with music. A familiar tune, one he remembered Dean playing for him one night in the Impala.

 

_Back in black,_

_I hit the sack,_

_I've been too long I'm glad to be back,_

_Yes, I'm let loose,_

_From the noose,_

_That's kept me hanging about,_

_I've been looking at the sky,_

_'Cause it's gettin' me high,_

_Forget the hearse 'cause I never die,_

_I got nine lives,_

_Cat's eyes,_

_Abusin' every one of them and running wild._

A smile crept across Castiel’s face. _Good job, Sam._

 

Upon hearing Castiel, the REAL Castiel, make his pronouncement, Dean felt a surge of strength. He pushed back against the shade whose smile diminished and was replaced with a grimace.

“He came for me!” cried Dean triumphantly. “I doubted him, and he came for me anyhow!”

The shade shrank back as Dean pushed himself up from the bed. Just then, an explosion rocked the motel room, blinding light streaming through the crack in the curtain. The shade’s wings of smoke and lightning retreated back inside of him as he covered his face and hissed.

_“Attaboy,_ thought Dean proudly, feeling love in his heart for what felt to be the first time. Suddenly, the clock radio hissed and crackled, and familiar music began to pour from the speakers.

_AC/DC?_ thought Dean, curiously. Then he smiled. _Nice one, Sam._

He charged at the shade and threw a powerful right hook that caught it square on the jaw. The shade let out a satisfying yelp.

“D-dean, what are you doing?” mewled the shade plaintively. “Please don’t hurt me.” His eyes went from black back to a deep and thoughtful blue. The shade bit its lip and pleaded, “Dean, don’t you love me?”

_'Cause I'm back,_  
_Yes, I'm back,_  
_Well, I'm back,_  
_Yes, I'm back,_  
_Well, I'm baaaack, baaaaack,_  
_Well, I'm back in black,_  
Yes, I'm back in black.

Dean wound up again and connected brutally with the shade’s left eye. Dean felt a crunch under his fist.

“YOU,” he shouted between punches, “ARE. NOT. CASTIEL.” He delivered blow after blow, in time with the beat of the music, “YOU. ARE. EVERYTHING. WRONG. WITH. ME.” Dean stood up, muscles shaking, as he glared at the battered and bloodied shade of Castiel that cowered on the floor, one hand up toward Dean. Dean’s breath came out in ragged gasps. The shade slowly pulled itself up to standing, face swollen and cracked.

“D-dean,” the shade sputtered, “you do this, you kill me. You kill your love for him.”

Dean’s breath caught in his chest, and he blinked rapidly. _What if it’s right? What if--_

Suddenly, the door of the motel room disintegrated in a blast of blinding white that enveloped every molecule of Dean in warmth, love, and adoration. In stormed the angel, his angel, huge, glorious black wings swirling with every color in the rainbow unfurling behind him. His eyes glowed the furious blue of a neutron star as he ran at the shade, lifting him up into the air with one hand.

A voice that shook Dean to his very core vibrated outward from Castiel, the words filling Dean’s head and pushing out every negative thought and self-doubt.

“NOTHING CAN KILL DEAN’S LOVE FOR ME.”

And with that, the shade vaporized in Castiel's hand.  
  
_Back in the back,_

_Of a Cadillac,_

_Number one with a bullet, I'm a power pack,_

_Yes, I'm in a bang,_

_With a gang,_

_They've got to catch me if they want me to hang,_

_'Cause I'm back on the track,_

_And I'm beatin' the flack,_

_Nobody's gonna get me on another rap,_

_So look at me now,_

_I'm just makin' my play,_

_Don't try to push your luck, just get out of my way._

Castiel’s light dimmed to an ethereal glow as he brought his wings in and turned toward his friend, eyes cast downward. “Dean,” the angel started, but before he could finish, Dean ran at him and wrapped an arm around his waist, the other coming up from behind to run through his dark hair, magnificent in his angelic glow. Dean pressed his forehead and body against his angel’s. Where there was once self-loathing, shame, and fear he now felt nothing but grace and the love of another.

“Dean,” murmured Cas’ gravelly voice, “do I frighten you?”

Dean’s eyes met Cas’ and both felt as they were looking into a deep well of endless possibilities. “No, angel. You are the most beautiful thing these sorry eyes have ever seen.”

The music swelled, filling the room as the pair swayed gently in their embrace. Cas smiled sweetly as he ran slowly ran his hand up Dean’s side and gently touched two fingers to his friend’s temple.

“It is time to wake up.”


	14. Wake Up

Castiel slowly opened his eyes and sat up, blinking and looking around slowly, substantiating his place and time. His head tilted slightly to one side and a small smile lit his face upon hearing the familiar music.

“Cas!” Sam exclaimed, “you’re back!” Sam’s face lit up, but then dimmed when he noticed his brother, while no longer groaning, remained asleep. “Cas… is he… gonna be alright?” Sam asked, biting his lower lip pensively.

“Yes, Sam, I believe he will be,” said the angel, slyly.

_ Is he smirking? _ thought Sam. “Why is he still asleep?”

“This was a much more peaceful transition than we had experienced previously. I did not need to… forcibly eject him this time.” Castiel met Sam’s eyes with a measured gaze. “Sam, it is possible that Dean might not remember what happened. He may wake confused or disoriented.”

“Cas, what happened in there?” asked Sam with concern. It was then that Dean’s eyes fluttered open. He lifted his head slightly, full lips gently parted as he looked at his brother and blinked as if the verify his corporeality. 

“Cas?” he muttered languidly.

“I am here, Dean,” the angel replied warmly, with a small smile and luminous blue eyes that were all Dean’s.

Dean blinked again, and then without warning he shot out from the bed straight at Castiel, gripping the arms of the rolling desk chair and smashing it into the desk three feet behind them. He wrapped his arms around the back of Castiel’s neck and up through his hair. He kissed his friend with a newfound passion, feeling his warm, soft lips for the first time. Castiel sat stiffly at first, overcome with emotions he had never needed to process before. But then, Dean opened his mouth and Castiel could feel his warm tongue caressing his lips, searching for an opening. Castiel was undone. Their arms flailed for purchase, and with mouths still locked they pulled themselves to standing. Castiel reached his arms around his friend, one hand slipping under the back of Dean’s shirt and the other squeezing him closer, tighter. He wanted to feel the heat of Dean on his skin, wanted his smell all over him. He opened his mouth to mirror Dean’s, tongues darting in and out, exploring one another on this great new expedition.

Dean felt weak in the knees, barely able to bear the strain as his heart flooded with gratitude and his mind clouded with lust. He had no more misgivings, no more doubts. He knew what he wanted, what he had always wanted, and now he was going to take it, dammit. He pulled his mouth away from Cas’ and heard his angel sigh piteously, a noise that shot through every neuron in his body and triggered a stiffening in his jeans that ached for Castiel. He dove his face into the angel’s neck and began kissing his collarbone delicately, methodically, resisting the urge to devour his friend whole. There was Cas, and only Cas, and nothing else.

“Ahem,” Sam cleared his throat. “Guys…?”


	15. Revelations

Castiel froze upon hearing the younger Winchester clear his throat, body rigid in Dean’s embrace. Dean seemed not to hear at all, but sensed Castiel’s tension and misinterpreted it for a different kind of reticence. He ran his hand up Castiel’s chest, wrapped his fist in Cas’ tie and pulled the angel toward him so he could breathe into his ear, “Is this real, Cas’? Or are we still dreaming?”

“Dean,” Castiel cleared his throat, looking past Dean back at Sam who stood by the bed, eyebrow raised, a curious smile on his face. Dean jerked his head back, eyes narrowing in confusion as he examined Castiel’s face. He let his hand slide down Cas’ tie as he angled his torso sideways and turned his head back to see Sam, hunched over, fist to his mouth, trying his damnedest not to let the laughter in his eyes tumble out. 

Dean’s face went as red as his eyes went wide. “No, Dean, we are no longer dreaming,” said Castiel with a small smile, relaxing at the ridiculousness of it all. Dean looked back to Castiel, then back to Sam, the back to Castiel. With that, he let the tie drop, untangled himself from the angel, and took a sizeable side step away from Cas. He brought his hands up and interwove his fingers behind his head, biting his lower lip. 

“Wow, uh, fellas… I, uh…” Dean struggled to deflect what he perceived to be endless, silent questions bombarding him, about his masculinity, his strength. Sam took his hand away from his mouth and strode toward his brother, pulling him in hard for a hug. “Hey, easy man!” Dean grunted, “no chick flick moments, alright?”

Sam put his hands on either side of Dean and pushed him back to stare him in the face. “I don't think you get to say that anymore, pal,” he chuckled with a huge grin on his face. 

Castiel stayed put, watching the whole exchange from his spot against the desk. He tilted his head, unsure of what to make of it. Sam seemed enthusiastic about seeing his brother up and well, and amused by the intimate moment Dean had initiated. Castiel knew Sam was supportive, or at least that is what he had indicated in their previous conversation, but now he seemed to have a joking, teasing tone. Dean was clearly uncomfortable, physically distancing himself from Castiel and struggling to explain his behavior. Dean had left a vacuum when he let Castiel go. He could feel the space between them aching to be bridged. 

“What happened in there?” smiled Sam, tapping the top of Dean’s head with a finger. I need to know.”

“Look, man,” started Dean defensively, “I just woke up, I’m confused, I just need a second…”

“I understand,” said Castiel’s voice from behind, gruffly, and before Dean could respond or even turn, Castiel was gone in a crackle of feathers.

“Ah, man, C’MON!” exclaimed Dean in frustration. “Cas! CAS!” he called in exasperation. His eyes shot daggers at his brother who had by that time released him. 

“Dean…” Sam started apprehensively, “what--”

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me, pal,” muttered Dean agrilly. “You scared him off!”

“I don’t think he’s scared, man,” replied Sam. “I think he feels bad.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment. “Yeah? And what the hell would you know about it?” he said defensively.

“Dean, you just acted super embarrassed. He probably thinks you are ashamed of yourself, or of him. One second you are all over him, and the next you say you’re confused and need to think about things.” Sam shrugged. 

“I didn’t mean for you to see that, Sammy,” Dean tried to explain, but became exasperated. “This doesn’t have to do with you!”

Sam let all signs of patience and understanding slip from his face. “Dammit, Dean, Castiel is the one who came to ME with this. We just wanted to help you. There are emotional issues you clearly aren’t dealing with.” Sam gestured with one hand toward the ceiling. “ I KNOW how you feel about him, Dean. I’ve always known.” He shrugged, “it’s obvious.”

Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So,” he said, “Cas came to you, told you I was having wackadoo dreams, and that I should let him in my mind so he could play house? You thought this was a GOOD idea?” 

“Jesus fuck, Dean,” Sam said incredulously. “Is this some sort of weird hard-correct? Can you even hear yourself? I trust Cas, and you do too. He told me he loved you Dean! He climbed into your mind and saved you from yourself.” Sam began to ramp up. “I don’t know WHAT happened in that brain of yours, but it was something good. Stop pretending that it wasn’t!” 

Dean stood still for a moment, and then sat down in the rolling chair. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he looked straight at Sam, eyes wet. “I just sent Cas out on some sort of Angel Walk-of-Shame, didn’t I?” he said hoarsely.

Sam paused and then replied carefully, “pretty much, yeah.”

“What do I do, Sammy?”

“Well, you could start by telling me what happened,” Sam said quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“You can’t make fun of me,” Dean cautioned. “I can’t handle that shit right now.”

“You have my word,” Sam assured. “Promise.”


	16. Dream On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with Aerosmith's Dream On in mind.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHRNSeuvzlM

Castiel sat in the Impala that was still parked at the diner. He had not been sure where else to go to think. He just had to leave, not caring where he ended up, and somehow there he substantiated, in the back seat of the car, his usual spot when the three of them went hunting. The car was permeated with Dean’s scent, one that Castiel got to inhale deeply and in person for the first time mere minutes prior. Now the remnants in the car left him feeling… what words had Sam used?

_It’s… it’s like loneliness and helplessness and adoration all mixed together._

Castiel leaned his head against the window, watching the late afternoon autumn sun hit the pavement at an angle, reflecting a weak orange light that filled the car with shadows. Castiel’s breath puffed condensation against the glass. His eyes were open but unfocused.

_I just woke up, I’m confused, I just need a second…_

Before entering Dean’s dream, Castiel had not known what to expect. He thought he was going to have to soothe a hostile, violent, self-destructive man. Instead, he was confronted by Dean’s basest desires, and parts of Dean that sought to enable his self-loathing by twisting all his hopes, invalidating his self-worth. Dean’s shade had deceived Castiel into thinking it was Dean’s true form, but then, was it not? Dean, his shade, and everything else Castiel encountered was a manifestation of Dean’s mind. The shade was Dean’s deception, lust, and need to dominate and control. Perhaps the other Dean was the flip side of the coin, so to speak. That Dean was warm, open, yielding and, Castiel thought, loving. Castiel knew some people forgot their dreams when they awoke, and were left with only impressions. Perhaps Dean woke with only the positive feelings, but then they faded as he realized that he was no longer dreaming.

 _I was foolish to think Dean would, could reciprocate my feelings for him,_ thought Castiel sadly. _Maybe I do not understand what human love is._ Castiel pressed his lips into a thin flat line as tears ran down his cheeks, and he breathed in Dean's smell in shallow, measured breaths. Curiously, after a few minutes, he began to feel a bit better. It felt good not having to conceal his feelings, to not have to do the infuriatingly human dance of feeling one way and acting another. He shook his head  to clear away the remnants of self-pity and gestured toward the dashboard of the car. The stereo turned on with a crackle of static and one of Dean’s cassettes came to life, music blaring loudly through the speakers.

 _Every time when I look in the mirror,_   
_All these lines on my face getting clearer,_   
_The past is gone,_   
_It went by, like dusk to dawn_   
_Isn't that the way?_ _  
Everybody's got the dues in life to pay._

_I know nobody knows,_   
_Where it comes and where it goes,_   
_I know it's everybody sin,  
You gotta lose to know how to win._

The song caused something to rise inside Castiel, and he willed the music louder. It somehow comforted him to know this was something that spoke to Dean, for whatever reason.

 _Half my life_   
_Is books, written pages,_   
_Live and learn from fools and_   
_From sages,_   
_You know it's true,_ _  
All these feelings come back to you._

  
_Sing with me, sing for the years,_   
_Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears,_   
_Sing with me, just for today,  
Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away._


	17. Weird Mind Mojo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing extended dialogue between the brothers. Eeep.

“So let me get this straight,” said Sam. “You woke up in a motel room? Naked?”

“Sammy, what did I say?” Dean snapped.

“Hey, man, no judgement, I’m just making sure I heard you right.”

“Fine,” Dean replied tersely.

“So…”

“And then he came out of the bathroom.”

“Also naked?”

“I mean, we were wearing underwear,” Dean mumbled defensively.

“And then what?” Sam said as calmly as he could, despite being filled to the brim inside with excited, girly screaming.

“There was the huge storm outside, it sounded like a hurricane. The radio was playing Stairway, which is how I knew I was dreaming. And then…” Dean trailed off, running his hand through his sandy hair. “And then it just happened.” Dean cast his eyes down and started fiddling with the hem of his shirt nervously.

Sam craned his neck forward, eyebrow raised. “What happened Dean?”

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this,_ thought Dean. He cleared his throat. “He, uh, approached me and, uh, he told me he wanted to show me what kind of man I was. And then we just, collided.”

“Collided?” Sam repeated, confused.

“Jesus Christ, Sam! Do I need to spell it out for you?” We were hot and heavy! One goddamn game away from the tonsil hockey championships, okay?”

Sam just stared a moment, and then only said one word. “Whoa.”

“Whoa is right, brother. Whoa is goddamned right.”

They sat quietly for a while, Sam trying to wrap his head around what he’d just heard, Dean experiencing a strange feeling of relief after admitting something he had previously never, ever thought he’d say. He felt looser, more comfortable. He leaned forward in his chair and continued, “but here’s the weird thing, Sammy--”

“That wasn’t the weird thing?”

Dean continued, choosing to ignore the remark. “It wasn’t Cas. It was, I dunno, Anti-Cas? It was just something my mind made up. It was just fucking with me, and then it pinned me down on the bed--”

“The bed?” Sam’s eyebrow was raised so high it was practically crawling off his face.

“Yeah, it was some weird mind mojo. It held me there and the room started filling with these big, dark clouds, they looked like wings. This thing, the Not-Cas, it kept calling me worthless, saying I was broken and that…” Dean trailed off, eyes far away.

Sam was absolutely on the edge of his seat, hanging on every word. _Dean was talking! He was actually talking!_ Sam reached a hand out and clasped his brother’s shoulder, snapping him back to reality. Dean’s gaze focused back on his brother, who nodded affirmatively.

Dean cleared his throat. “And, well… thatCascouldneverlovemeokay?” The words tumbled from his mouth is a rapid-fire jumble of shame and insecurity.

Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulder. He felt some sort of pride-relief hybrid for Dean, and it showed in his face.

“I believed it,” Dean said with a wince. “I believed it because I wanted to. I knew I didn’t deserve him, don’t deserve him--”

“Hey man,” Sam interjected. “Don’t say that.”

“What? It’s true. He’s a fucking ANGEL, man! And what am I? Just a fucked up dude who couldn’t hold on to a good thing if was duct taped to my hand.” Dean pressed his lips together and gave his a head a small shake.

Sam took his hand away and decided to move the conversation forward rather than argue the point. “Then what?”

“So I’m there, I can’t move, and then there’s the explosion outside. Huge flash of white light, and I hear him.”

“Hear who?”

“Cas,” Dean said, light returning to his eyes. “It was Cas.”

“But I thought--”

“No,” Dean interrupted. “Not Fake-Cas. CAS-Cas. And I heard his voice, his real voice. It snapped me out of it.”

“What did he say?” asked Sam.

“Do not question my love for Dean Winchester.”


	18. More Complex than Previously Anticipated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Aerosmith!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHRNSeuvzlM

_Dream on,_   
_Dream on,_   
_Dream on,_ _  
Dream until your dreams come true._

Castiel had made a mess of things, he knew that now. How arrogant of him to think he had all the answers, that he could go into Dean’s mind and… interfere. That his presence would serve as anything other than additional confusion.

That feeling again, the helplessness and loneliness. The ache of it was nearly unbearable. It pulled at his grace, and Castiel could feel colors rising up inside him, the greens of Dean’s eyes and the golden brown of his hair. He could hear Dean’s voice laughing and feel the warmth of his smile. He could hear his boot steps turning and walking away.

_Castiel, you are better than this,_ he thought, but it was not his voice in his head. It was Dean’s. _Put on your big boy pants. You are an Angel of the Lord. So, you might’ve made some mistakes. So what? You gonna quit? Or are you gonna do something about it?_ Castiel blinked. Perhaps this some remnant left over from when Castiel was in Dean’s head. Apparently, going somewhere to think by yourself is impossible to do when you are in love with Dean Winchester.

_Sing with me, sing for the years,_   
_Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears,_   
_Sing with me, just for today,_ _  
Maybe tomorrow, the good Lord will take you away._

Castiel cleared his throat, tugged down on his jacket lapels, and opened the car door. He could not just keep these feeling bottled up inside. Dean did that, and his spirit was nearly broken. Nearly. And why had it not? Because Dean was better than that, he was strong, and because he believed Castiel when Castiel reminded him of that fact.

_He may not love me, but he trusts me,_ Castiel thought. _I can still care for about him, and for him. I can still help him and guide him, and do that out of love. It is selfish to ask anything in return._

Castiel smiled as he stepped out of the car, upon having his doubts and shame lifted by calm, rational thinking. He would explain his realizations to Dean, apologize, and make amends. Then, when Dean was ready, they could resume their previous roles as close friends. Brothers in arms. Soldiers in the fight of good versus evil. _Who like to hold hands and hug a lot._

Castiel stood holding the door open and shook his head, trying to clear it of his thoughts of Dean, of the sound of his whisper in his ear and the feel of his breath on his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out visions of Dean in his boxer briefs, bathed in angelic glow, muscles tense and wanting. He clenched his fist at the remembrance of Dean’s body pressed against his own, and imagined his human reaching up to gently run his fingers through the feathers of his dark, prismatic wings.

Castiel’s eyes flew open, blue flames burning. He had begun to glow, and could see in the window of the Impala the reflection of two great shadows emanating from his back. _What is happening to me?_ he thought, panic rising and mixing with lust and uncertainty. He tried to decorporealize and teleport elsewhere, but it felt like he was glued the the car door, anchored down by thoughts of Dean. His Dean.

_Get it together, Cas_ , he heard Dean’s voice say. _You can feel these feelings, but you can’t let’m control you. I’m always gonna be here, no matter what happens, so let go._

Castiel heard his own voice as his glow died down, “this is more complex than previously anticipated.” He closed the car door, and headed toward the diner.


	19. Rocket Science

“Wow,” said Sam. “I can’t believe it.”

“Trust me, Sammy, when an angel says something in their true voice, you believe it,” Dean said matter-of-factly.

“No, I mean, that’s what he said to me!” Sam exclaimed.

Dean was taken aback. “Wait, what?”

“I mean, when he was talking to me about you, before we went and found you at the diner. I was, well, I was… giving him shit I guess, and then he said that to me.” Sam winced. “He was very… emphatic.”

Dean’s face squeaked out a half smile. “He said that to you, did he?”

Sam smiled wide. “Uh-huh.” He watched his brother as a blush spread across his cheeks.  _ Oh my God, Dean Winchester is blushing. _ He pulled a serious look back over his face. “You haven’t told me what happened next.”

“I heard his voice, and then I felt… stronger. I was able to get up off the bed. Then I heard your… soundtrack.” Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother.

“You liked that, eh?” Sam said slyly.

“Well, it was certainly fun to punch to. I jumped up and just started wailing on the fucker. Then the door just exploded off the frame and in walked Cas, the real Cas, and he ran up to the other guy and basically vaporized him with his mojo.” 

“Holy shit.”

“Holy a lot of things.”

“I wonder what happened to him, what that explosion was,” Sam wondered aloud.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask him,” admitted Dean.

“I’m guessing he had to fight his way to you,” Sam deduced. “Fight whatever defenses your mind put in place to keep you… in the dark.”

“So you’re saying I kept him away with my own brain?” he said, discouraged.

“Well, part of you. The part that hates yourself and doesn’t want you to be happy. The part that reviles Castiel and what he means to you.”

Dean sat with that thought for a while before Sam started in again.

“And then? What happened after he vaporized the other guy?”

Dean took a second to collect his words. “And then? Sammy, it was the most beautiful…” Dean trailed off. “It was perfect.” It was then that something in Dean broke. He started shaking, and tears came tumbling out of his eyes. “Well, I’ve been a real grade-A piece of shit, haven’t I?” he said with a wet grimace.

“Maybe a little.”

“Dammit, Sam. I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You need to talk to him.”

“Sam,” Dean said, exasperated, “he left! I was a dick and he left and frankly, I don’t blame him.” Dean’s voice lowered, defeated. “He wouldn’t show up, even if I prayed for him. I’m no good, Sammy, and now he knows.”

“You are a good man,” Sam consoled, then smirked. “An asshole sometimes, but aren't I? I mean, Cas has made some fuck awful life choices, but all from a place of wanting to help others, help you.”

“Sammy, even if I could get him to come back, what would I say?” Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“Just tell him what you told me. You’re an asshole, you’re sorry. You don’t deserve him. You fucking ADORE him. This isn’t rocket science, Dean. This is honesty.”


	20. Say Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that I best enjoy writing Castiel.

Castiel walked into the diner, which was in the lull before the dinner rush. The only other patrons were some teenagers in a booth in the corner drinking coffee and sharing a plate of french fries. He stood at the register for someone to come by, and after a minute of waiting he finally noticed the sign reading “Please Seat Yourself”. 

_ You are distracted, Castiel, _ he thought to himself. He felt something he could only describe as nausea, a churning inside that left him off balance and anxious. He chose a two-seater table in the middle of the restaurant, smoothed his trench coat under him, and sat down on one of the vinyl-padded chairs. He felt self-conscious, as if he were projecting his thoughts outward on all frequencies and in all known languages.  _ Are those children watching me? _ he thought. He stared down at the paper placemat, squeezing his fists under the table in his lap. He needed to formulate a plan, he needed--

“Hey, honey, can I get you anything to drink?”

Castiel’s eyes flew upward in surprise. Somehow, this waitress had snuck up on him.  _ Castiel, you are a mess. _

“Ah hun, don’t be so hard on yourself. Nobody’s perfect!” said the dark-haired waitress, a small smile on her face.

Castiel’s eyes widened. “Apologies. I did not realize I was speaking aloud,” said Castiel, and it was true. The effort required not to lose himself completely in his thoughts of Dean was actually lowering his capacity to engage in any other activity. 

The waitress continued, “you shoulda seen the guy in here this morning. Looked like death, scared out of his wits! He ordered a great big breakfast, pie, and then ran out of here without eating a bite.”

_ Dean. _

“He left a nice tip, though,” the waitress shrugged. Castiel noticed her name tag. 

“Charlene,” Castiel said, his voice gravelly and unsure, “may I ask your advice on a sensitive matter? I must preface it with the admittance that I have no one else with whom I can speak, so if you decline I will have no recourse.”

The tall woman shifted her weight and brought her hand up to her jaw thoughtfully, resting her order pad on her hip. With a half smile she replied, “sure, hun, but you gotta order something or I can’t let you sit here.”

Castiel turned and pointed at the teenagers in the corner. “I will have what they are having,” he said gruffly. The teens leaned in and whispered to one another with smirks on their faces.

“Coffee and fries coming right up.”

As Castiel waited for his order he struggled to formulate his questions for the waitress. He knew that he could not continue his friendship with Dean while simultaneously struggling with his deeper feelings. He could leave Dean be, and take himself out of the equation, sparing his friend from the angst Castiel would no doubt carry with him everywhere. The only other option he saw would be to repair the damage he had done and remind Dean that he loved him just as he was. Castiel had no reference points for undertaking such an endeavor. He needed input from an actual human.

When the waitress returned with the food and drink, she slid into the chair across from Castiel, leaning forward with elbows on the table. She snatched a hot french fry off of the plate, bit into it, and smiled. “I find you request quite compelling,” said Charlene, bemused. “But before you start, I just gotta say… are you not weirded out right now?”

Castiel swallowed. “I admit my request is exceedingly… weird, as you say--”

“No, I mean, look at us.” Charlene gestured between the two of them with her hand. She leaned in closer and snatched another fry and whispered, “we could be brother and sister.”

Castiel paused and took the time to look carefully at the woman. In his distraction he had failed to note her appearance. Her smooth, angular hair was a stark contrast to his own unruly locks, and she looked less tired than Castiel felt. However, her blue eyes were striking, and they sparkled and crinkled when she smiled. She was solidly built and graceful, measured and practiced in her movements. She had an air of self possession and confidence that he lacked. She looked like a woman who knew what she wanted and was on her way to getting it. Castiel was flattered by the comparison. He felt confident she could help him, as she appeared to be Castiel as he wish he could could be. Calm, kind, open, confident, and… flirtatious. 

“Charlene, have you ever loved and lost?” asked Castiel softly, hands gripping the mug of coffee he had no intention of drinking. 

“I'm taking it you have,” she replied sympathetically. 

“I believe so,” said Castiel to the table top. “I may have overstepped my bounds, made erroneous inferences about how he feels--”

“He?” interrupted Charlene.

Castiel continued, lost in his thoughts, not noticing her mild surprise.

“Yes, his name is Dean.” Castiel sighed softly, still looking down. Charlene looked across the table at him, then past him, and out of the front windows she noticed the Chevy Impala, still outside on the far side of the parking lot.

She scrunched her face. “Wait, is he the man who was in here this morning? The one who ran outta here without eating?”

“Yes, that was him,” said the angel, eyes darting upward toward her face.

She spoke carefully. “Was he upset about you?”

“No,” said Castiel in a low, sad voice. “That came later, after I tried to help him. We had a… confusing interaction.”

Charlene found the entire conversation compelling. The events of the day had made this the most interesting shift she’d worked since she started at the diner. She leaned in and placed a hand on Castiel’s arm reassuringly. The gesture surprised him and he tilted his head ever so slightly. “What was confusing about it?” she asked with a voice of genuine concern.

Castiel was relatively sure that asking a complete stranger for relationship advice was not a normal human behavior, but he was desperate. Thus far, she had behaved kindly, and Castiel felt somehow connected to her. She reflected back what he wished he saw in the mirror. It was almost like she had grace of her own. “It was my impression that I made my feelings for him well known, and he appeared to reciprocate those feelings. But then his brother was there, and Dean appeared… embarrassed by me. He said he needed to think about things, so I disappeared.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Correct.”

“Well, Castiel... that is your name right?” asked Charlene. Castiel nodded. “Castiel, what is it that you want help with?” a small smile appeared on Charlene’s face, and her eyes had a thoughtful look. “I have a feeling I know.”

“You do?” Castiel said, eyes widening a bit.

“Yup. I think you want to make a grand gesture,” she said, sweeping an arm wide. “You wanna show Dean how much he means to you. Lay it all on the line. Do or die. Now or never. Lloyd Dobler outside of Diane’s house blaring Peter Gabriel on a boom box.”

“I do not understand that reference,” Castiel said with a furrowed brow.  _ This may be more difficult than I thought. _

“Hmmm,” said Charlene. “This may be more difficult that I thought.”

Castiel blinked a few times.  _ How odd. _

“Here, let me show you,” said Charlene, fishing her smartphone out of her back pocket. She swiped the screen and pulled up the clip from Say Anything, where John Cusack holds up a boombox playing “In Your Eyes”. She turned the phone and Castiel studied it like a nature documentary. When it ended, she took the phone back and put it back into her pocket. “He even has your coat!”

“Charlene, I am confused. Lloyd’s strategy did not seem to work.” Castiel appeared to shrink in defeat. “Diane did not come to the window. He just stood there, and looked sad.”

“That’s not the point!” she replied emphatically. “The point is that he made the gesture. He knew that if he didn’t do something, he might lose her. He needed to show her that he cared, regardless of whether things worked out in his favor. At the end of the movie, she realizes what he means to her.”

Castiel tugged on his lower lip with his teeth. “So you are suggesting… martyrdom?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Charlene said, cocking her head.

“I do not.”

Charlene pressed her hands into the table as she stood. “My shift ends in 20 minutes,” she said, flashing a smile. “I am going to help you. You can do this, Castiel,” she said, decisively.

Castiel gulped.


	21. The Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild masturbation smut, ahoy!

Dean had finally asked Sam to give him a bit of space, because he needed to think of a strategy. What should he, could he say to Castiel to express his regret? _A shower,_ he thought. _A shower is what I need._

He walked down the hall to the old, utilitarian bathroom, and turned both faucets. He let the water run for a while; the old plumbing took a bit of time to regulate temperatures. He felt the water run over his hand until it normalized. Dean liked his showers hot, just below scalding. He just didn’t feel clean otherwise.

Dean turned toward the medicine cabinet and leaned in to examine his face in the mirror. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep. His lips were chapped from dehydration, and he felt his stomach grumble. He hadn’t eaten in 24 hours at least. He thought he looked old, and felt even older. He brought his fingers up to his face to trace frown lines, scowl lines. All of his hurt and fear and pain was now permanently etched onto his face.

 _I’m all used up_ , he thought. _I’m empty, just a husk. In my dream, I felt… vital. Alive. Because of him._ Dean ran his hands through his hair, stopping at the crown of his head. He paused there, and then slowly, almost without noticing it, he pulled. Lightly at first, then harder, imagining Castiel’s strong fingers instead of his own. He closed his eyes, and saw Cas’ face smiling, glowing, looking down at him.

 _Do you want to know what kind of man you are, Dean Winchester?_ he heard Cas say. Then suddenly, the angel’s eyes went black and his face twisted into a wicked grin. Dean’s eyes flew open and he stumbled backwards, muffling a shout. The bathroom had filled with steam, a hot fog that now obscured the mirror. _Goddamnit Dean, get it together._

Dean stripped off his shirt and threw it on the floor in disgust. He unbuckled his belt, slid his jeans and underwear down to the cold tile floor and stepped out of them. He hooked a thumb in his sock and stripped it off, holding the edge of the sink for support, and then repeated the gesture for its mate. He looked down at his body, slightly slick with condensation. Scarred, worn out, inside matching outside. He threw back the mildewy shower curtain and stepped into the old clawfoot tub, groaning under the hot water. _At least the water pressure is good._

Dean let the water pour over his face and through his hair, and flow over his tired muscles. He grabbed the bottle of soap from its spot on the floor of the shower, clicked open the cap, and squirted a generous amount into his palm. He lathered it up between his hands and began to massage it into his skin. He started with his chest, moving in fast, circular motions, and then down his abdomen. Suddenly, he felt a dull ache in his shoulder and ran his hand up his arm to meet the pain. He looked down and realized that it was the exact spot where Castiel had left his handprint all those years ago, when he had pulled him out of Hell. He closed his eyes as he was overcome with emotions. Guilt, shame, and feelings of unworthiness danced and mingled with lust and adoration. He pressed his hand into his shoulder imagining that it was not his, but Castiel’s. He squeezed the spot, and then let his hand move across his chest probingly. He kneaded and massaged his own muscles with soapy, amorous strokes. A small moan escaped his lips as he let both hands slide down his stomach and wrap around his waist, gripping his sides and pulling his hips forward ever so slightly.

 _Dean, do I frighten you?_ said Castiel’s voice in his head.

“No, angel,” Dean murmured under his breath. “Nothing frightens me when you’re around.” Dean’s slick hands slowly found their way down to his groin and his breath caught when he realized that he was painfully hard. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes tight at the realization of what was happening, what was about to happen.

_Is this not what you want, Dean?_

“Dammit, angel, it's the only thing I want.”

Dean wrapped his right hand around his member. _Fuck, I am hard,_ he thought to himself. He started with long, slow strokes that sent lightning shooting up his spine. He shuddered. With his left hand he continued to massage the muscles of his abdomen and chest, and then let his hand slide his neck up to his hair, curling his fingers and pretending they were Cas’. Then his imagination shifted as his strokes became faster, more fervent. In his mind’s eye he saw Castiel before him, shirtless, eyes aflame. Stretched out on either side of him were the giant, black wings from his dream, each magnificent feather radiating ethereal rainbow light that pulsed in rhythm with Dean’s hand. Castiel had tears in his eyes and the most beatific expression, one that told Dean, without a doubt, that everything would be okay. Dean reached out and dove his fingers into the feathers of Cas’ left wing and felt fireworks explode in his veins, and suddenly he was coming harder than he’d ever in his entire life, groaning and grasping at the plumbing for support as his knees buckled and his breath came out in ragged gasps.

Dean slid to the floor of the tub, endorphins coursing through his veins. He laughed as he cried, and his effusive tears of adoration and loneliness were washed down the drain until the water ran cold.


	22. One Does Not Simply Walk into Mordor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want Charlene to be my friend.

After Charlene’s shift had ended the two of them stayed at the table and she peppered Castiel with questions about Dean “for research”.

“First of all, what does Dean hate?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“I know that he did not enjoy the time he spent in Hell,” Castiel quickly replied. “Luckily, I was able pull him out.”

“So you helped him through some tough times then, eh?”

“To put it mildly.”

“What else? What else rubs him the wrong way?”

“He has a strong aversion to the the teddy bear from those fabric softener commercials,” he said, deadpan.

Charlene shuddered. “Who doesn’t? Okay, so… what does Dean fear most?”

Castiel’s eyes drifted upwards in thought. “He is quite terrified of flying. Phobic, even.”

“So no romantic trips to Puerto Vallarta in your future, huh?”

“Not on a plane, no.”

Charlene shifted in her seat. “Now, Castiel, tell me: What does he love? What brings him pleasure?” Charlene smiled, blue eyes sparkling. She really was enjoying this, helping Castiel. She could tell he was so hurt, lonely, and scared. She barely knew the guy, but she ached on his behalf.

“Dean values family above all else,” Castiel said automatically.

“So he’s loyal, then?”

“To a fault.”

“Okay, but that’s a value. What does he enjoy? What makes him smile?”

Castiel thought for a moment. “Dean loves his car. It was left to him by his father.” He paused.  "Dean is very fond of classic rock music. He listens to it every day.” He paused again, thinking. “He also has a very strong affinity for pie.” Castiel let slide a small smile as he remembered their passionate embrace in Dean’s dream, guitars thrumming and drums beating, his light filling the room as they pressed up against one another--

“Castiel?” Charlene waved her hand in front of the face of the angel whose attention had drifted far, far away. Castiel snapped back to attention.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Castiel. “I was just thinking about--”

“Pie?” Charlene could not suppress the huge grin spreading across her face.

Castiel cleared his throat, a crimson tell burning across his cheeks. Charlene reached out and took his hand in his, and looked him dead in the eye. “Don’t sweat it, Castiel. Everyone loves pie.”

 

Castiel started to pace nervously. He stood behind Charlene as she leaned into the front seat of the Impala, rooting through Dean’s cassette tapes. The sun was beginning to set, and the only thing Charlene had said to him as she led him out of the diner by the hand was, “Castiel, we’re going to Lloyd Dobler the shit out of you.”

“Nope, nope. What about this one--nope. Nope, no...nope,” she said, picking up each tape, examining it, and tossing it onto the passenger seat. She leaned back and stuck her head out the door. “Your boy sure does love him some Blue Oyster Cult,” she said with a smirk. “And Kansas! Adorable!” With that, she turned around and headed back into the fray.

“Charlene,” he said, husky voice cracking with insecurity, “I am not exactly sure of your intentions.”

“We have to find the appropriate song, Castiel,” she announced from inside the car. “A song that says something about you. And him. And you and him. A song you can give him that will say all the things you need to say because it’s--ah! Yes!” She leaned back out of the car, cassette held triumphantly overhead. “Because in situations like this, sometimes your own words fail.”

She stood up and took Castiel’s hand, and put the cassette in his palm with purpose. Castiel held it up and looked at it curiously.

“Audioslave? That does not sound uplifting,” said Castiel with a grimace.

“It’s not meant to be uplifting! It’s meant to be passionate. You are hurt, Castiel. You need to define yourself outside of the context of your relationship with Dean. Sounds like he needs to do the same. Then you build a new relationship around that. Be the man you want Dean to love, not to settle for.” She clasped Castiel’s hand between her own and squeezed. “You are the highway, Castiel. Now come inside and help me carry some things. Then we’ll drive around and practice.”

“Practice?” Castiel’s hoarse voice cracked.

“Castiel, one does not simply walk into Mordor.”

“I do not think I understand that reference.”


	23. Use Your Words

Sam had gone to read in his room after his brother had requested some time to think. He thought things would be better after Castiel entered Dean’s dream, and for about thirty-seven seconds they were. That is, until Dean had to go be Dean and Dean all over everything with his infuriating Dean-ness. At first Sam had not understood why Cas had disappeared, nor did he understand his brother’s reticence. He knew now that it had been too much to hope for a happy ending, that Dean and Cas would emerge a loving couple and all the neuroses and past hurts would simply evaporate into bliss and calm. 

_ I was so fucking naive _ , thought Sam, frustrated with himself. While his brother was a man of simple tastes, he was not a simple man. And Castiel, well he wasn’t a man at all. Sam knew Dean loved Cas, and now that Dean had admitted as much it felt like it should be such an easy fix.  _ Just talk to him! Tell him how you feel! What you want! Use your goddamn words! _

Sam knew Dean feared the worst, that there was nothing he could do to fix the situation. That he didn’t deserve for the situation to be fixed. It infuriated Sam, because he felt so strongly that Dean deserved something good, to feel good. To feel loved. He’d sacrificed so much for the family business, and for Sam. He didn’t know what he’d do without his brother, and to see him go from melting down with self loathing to, well… melting down with self-loathing was almost too much to bear. When Dean’s heart ached, so did Sam’s. 

Sam was glad when he heard the pipes groan.  _ Good, he’s taking a shower. _ Sam returned to his book about the Chicago World’s Fair. Sam loved historical non-fiction. It was such a pleasant escape from the daily grind of witches and demons and lycanthropes. He got lost in the details, and was particularly entranced by the section on the first Ferris Wheel when he heard the pipes groan again. He looked down at his watch.  _ Jesus _ , he thought with mild panic.  _ He’s been in there almost an hour. _ He put the book down and stood up quickly, strode out the door and down the hall to the bathroom.

He banged on the door loudly with his whole forearm. “Dean?” he called out over the sound of the shower. He heard nothing. “DEAN!” he called, louder this time, panic rising in his voice. He tried the handle and found it unlocked. He rushed in and pulled the curtain aside to find his brother sitting in the shower, shivering as ice cold water poured over him. His eyes were closed. Sam quickly shut off the water and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his brother’s shoulders and he knelt down beside the tub.

“Dean? Dean, pal, can you hear me?” Sam said quietly, voice edged with concern. He rubbed the flat of his hand in a circle on Dean’s back, over the towel. Dean lifted his head and stared into Sam’s eyes with a haunting look.

“Sammy, I’m fucking exhausted,” he whispered hoarsely. 

“It’s okay, Dean. I’ll help you to bed.”

Without another word, Sam helped Dean stand and step out of the tub. Shakily, Dean pulled the towel down and wrapped it around his waist, still shivering. Sam got another towel and draped it over his brother’s shoulders and steadied him as he walked back to his room. When Dean got to the doorway, he stopped.

“No, not here, Sammy. I am not gonna sleep in this room ever again,” he said with exhaustion and defeat coating every syllable.

“No problem, pal. Here, you can sleep in my bed tonight. I’ll take your bed. Is that okay?” Sam was nearly in tears seeing his brother so lost. 

“That’s good, Sammy. That will be just fine,” Dean said, still shivering.

The brothers kept walking until they got to Sam’s room. Sam grabbed some clean sweatpants and a t-shirt for Dean from his room. He came back and handed them to Dean who accepted them vacantly. Sam turned around to give his brother some privacy and said, “Dean, I just want you to know, I’m here to support you, no matter what. You opened up to me, and I think that everything you said, well… it was fucking beautiful. I am so proud of you, Dean.” Upon hearing no response, Sam turned around to see his brother, sweatpants and t-shirt on, curled up on Sam’s bed fast asleep. Sam’s face fell. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he quietly walked over to the bed and pulled a blanket up around his brother. He headed out the door and before closing it he turned one last time to make sure that Dean was still there, still breathing. As he backed into the hall he heard a static crackle of feathers and he turned around to find himself face-to-face with Castiel, Angel of the Lord.

“Jesus, Cas!” hissed Sam.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel replied, voice low and sad.

Sam grabbed Castiel’s jacket and guided him down the hall. “You came back!” he exclaimed in whisper tones. “Dean thought you’d never come back!”

Castiel tilted his head and furrowed his brow. “Sam, what do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Sam emphatically, “that after he was a total ass to you he thought he’d scared you off for good. He’s been going on and on about how terribly he feels. Cas,” Sam dropped his tone,” he told me what happened in his dream. What you did. What both of you did.”

Castiel froze, waves of conflicting emotion washing over him.  _ But I thought Dean was the one mad at me. That he wanted me gone. That I had reciprocated his attention in error.  _ “Sam,” Castiel swallowed hard, “do you mean to say that Dean is not mad at me?”

“Mad? Are you kidding? He’s absolutely despondent. He loves you. Cas. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Castiel’s face softened and his eyes misted. He reached toward Sam and pulled him in for a strong hug, and whispered, “he does not need to.” Castiel released Sam and looked him in the eye. “I have a plan. Do you know a Lloyd Dobler by any chance?”


	24. Boop

Castiel went to drop Charlene off at her apartment after they drove around for an hour “practicing”. She walked around to the driver’s side of the car on her long legs and then knelt down to Castiel. She leaned in and gave him a small peck on the cheek. 

“For good luck,” she said with a sweet smile. “Not that you’ll need it. You’ve got this, Castiel. He’s going to love it.”

Castiel smiled weakly, his body humming with nervous energy. “How do you know for sure?”

“You take care of him, look out for him. You’re the highway, Castiel. The sky. You’re his angel, I know it, and he loves you for it.” With that, she poked him gently on the nose with her index finger with a “boop”, stood up, and gracefully walked toward the door of her building. Castiel was taken aback.  _ Could she know? How? _

Charlene looked over her shoulder and called out, “and Castiel? When this is all said and done, you better come find me and tell me all about it.”

She began unlocking the door as Castiel called out, “but what do I do if he--”

Charlene turned. “Boop!” she called back with a grin, poking the air with her index finger, and with that she disappeared into the building.

Castiel sat in the car as it idled, summoning the courage required for his new mission. He could easily transport the car back to the bunker without driving it at all, but he decided he needed a bit more practice before the final attempt. He put the car in reverse and as he pulled away he heard Charlene shout his name. He looked up and saw her head poking out of the second floor window, waving and grinning.

“Castiel, don’t forget! ‘Charlene’ is an excellent baby name!”

 

Upon arriving at the bunker, he parked the Impala around the side. He sensed Dean was peacefully asleep, a mercy in and of itself. When he teleported inside and came face to face with Sam, he was initially worried about incurring some sort of vengeful, brotherly wrath. The ebullient greeting with which he was met significantly bolstered his courage.  _ Charlene was right, I do in fact ‘have this’. _

“Cas,” probed Sam, “why do you want to know about Lloyd Dobler?”


	25. Dream Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get real, folks.  
> Crank this one up real loud.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWlkmkZW2hk

“Dean, wake up.”

Dean bolted upright, awake, looking quickly back in forth in the dim light from the overhead bulb. Cas, that was Cas’ voice. He had sensed his presence, could swear that he still felt the crackle of ozone in the air of the bedroom, but the angel was nowhere to be seen. Dean threw his legs over the edge of the bed, rested his head in his hands and massaged his temples with his thumbs. _Did I actually think he’d come? After everything I’ve done? Dean, you’re a grade-A idjit--_

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something on the floor, by the door. He stood carefully, padding over to it in his bare feet. _What the hell?_ he thought, unsure if he was awake or still asleep. He knelt down to have a closer look.

A pie. Someone had left a pie on the floor in front of the door.

Dean picked up the pie and examined it closely. This was definitely a real pie, not a dream pie. It was in a foil pie tin, and looked an awful lot like his favorite apple pie they served at the diner. Balancing it in his left hand, he carefully opened the bedroom door and to his surprise found another pie, on the ground directly outside. Dean shook his head, trying to make sense of the situation. _Is Sam fucking with me? What is--_

There it was, down the hall. Another pie.

Dean picked up the second pie carefully and headed down the hall. Upon reaching the third pie he looked ahead toward the end of the hall. Another pie. Dean half walked, half jogged down the hall until he came into the main living area. There are the table rested two more pies. A seventh pie laid at the base of the stairs, and Dean could see a pie on every third step all the way up to the door of the bunker. Dean set one of the pies on the table and followed the trail up the stairs to the door, taking two steps at a time despite his exhaustion. He threw open the door to find more pies, trailing away from the door all the way up to--

_Cas._

Cas stood before him, leaning against the front fender of the Impala. The driver’s side of the car was open. When they made eye contact, Dean opened his mouth to speak but could not find the words. All of this was so overwhelming. His brain just could not reconcile Cas’ presence, and the pie, it was all so surreal.

Castiel took off his overcoat carefully, draping it over the door of the Impala. He repeated the procedure with his suit coat, staring deeply into Dean’s eyes the whole time. The pair were illuminated by a low, waxing moon that bathed them in cool light as the autumn mist crept across their feet. Castiel reached up and loosened his tie, then pulled it off and let it drop to the ground. He unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt, biting his lower lip ever so slightly, and began rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, first his left, then his right. Dean was reeling. Who was this person who stood before him, exuding confidence, undressing with purpose?

Castiel was filled with terror. He fought to steady himself, to make slow, measured movements. Dean loved him, he knew that now. Loved him despite all of his faults and missteps. He needed to show Dean what he meant to him, make him feel worthy and loved.

_Be the man you want Dean to love, not to settle for._

With a small gesture of Castiel’s hand, suddenly the air all around them began to twinkle as tiny, blue fairy lights floated and danced, creating highlights and shadows that traced the contours of their bodies. It was then that Dean’s hands fell away, dropping the pie at his feet. His chest tightened and body burned, and were his legs not frozen in place by shock it would have taken all of his will power not to run at Castiel, full-bore, tackling him into the side of the Impala.

Castiel smoothed one hand across the hood of the Impala and it rumbled to life, reassuring the angel with its familiar purr. He tapped the hood lightly with a finger, and Dean could hear a tape click and the strains of music coming from the speakers and out into the night.

Castiel took a step away from the car, arms relaxed and hanging at his sides. Dean could hear the slow rhythm of a guitar and then recognized the song. _I am the Highway_. Chris Cornell’s voice began, but Dean’s jaw dropped as Castiel opened his mouth and began to sing along.

_Pearls and swine bereft of me,_

_Long and weary my road has been,_

_I was lost in the cities,_

_Alone in the hills,_

_No sorrow or pity for leaving I feel._

Castiel’s voice was soft at first, barely audible over the existing song vocals. As he continued, his voice grew louder, more confident. He could see Dean blinking, shivering in the twinkling lights. It was all he could do not to run to Dean and wrap him up in his arms, but he knew he had to do this first. He had to show Dean who he was and clarify his intentions. He’d never sang before, not in his vessel’s voice. As the song continued, he began to fill with  purpose. He felt confident. Graceful. He knew what he wanted, and was on his way to getting it.

Dean stared, mouth agape, as his angel reached the chorus of the song. He alternatingly growled and purred through each verse, each syllable hinting at a longing that had before gone unexpressed. His eyes glowed with a blue flame that grew brighter and brighter with every word. The fairy lights began to collect and coalesce around Castiel, soaking into him as his torso began to glow. He lifted his arms outward, and Dean could swear he saw the angel's hips sway slightly.

_I am not your rolling wheels,_

_I am the highway,_

_I am not your carpet ride,_

_I am the sky._

Castiel’s voice grew louder, reverberating across the field and through the wooded thicket that surrounded the bunker. Dean could feel it resonating throughout his body, a tingling in his extremities that traced up his limbs and pulsed in his chest and down into his groin. His head swam and he felt weak in the knees. Never in his wildest dreams or nightmares could he have conjured up such a sight. _This is real. He’s really here._

A smile crept across Castiel’s face as the song continued. He could feel himself filling to the brim with adoration for his human. He could see it reflected back as he stared at Dean intently, and his joy grew exponentially as the music played and the words he had practiced so carefully came spilling out like he had known them all along. The love and lust that had caused so much confusion previously was now exquisite and pure, and could no longer be contained. It suffused outward in the form of celestial light. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes as he continued.

_Friends and liars don't wait for me,_

_I'll get on all by myself,_

_I put millions of miles,_

_Under my heels,_

_And still too close to you,_

_I feel._

Dean took a shaky step forward, breathing heavily with desire and relief. Dean understood now what Castiel wanted. He was not a human, and didn’t operate by the same set of rules. He wanted Dean to love him for what he was, without question or judgement, and to know that Castiel would do the same. They couldn’t define themselves by their failures and scars. Neither of them was perfect, and that was a good thing. They could be strong alone, and that made them stronger together. Just then, a huge grin spread across Dean’s face as he saw his angel, filled with joy, begin to dance like no one was watching. He gestured to the sky and the ground around him. His movements looked unconscious, like that was just the way of things. Dean could get used to this, his uninhibited, joyful angel.

_I am not your rolling wheels,_

_I am the highway,_

_I am not your carpet ride,_

_I am the sky._

Castiel lost himself in the song and his feelings for Dean. He could feel his grace surging through his body as his hips swayed and his head bowed. Suddenly, he felt an eruption from his back as his glow intensified.

Dean froze again as he saw two huge wings materialize in a flash of grace and static. They weren’t shadows, they were real. He could see Cas’ wings, actually SEE them. They were huge, black, and pulsating with every color possible, real and imagined. They were the most beautiful things Dean had ever seen. There were no words, just his angel. He dropped to his knees, tears in his eyes.

_I am not your blowing wind,_

_I am the lightning,_

_I am not your autumn moon,_

_I am the night,_

_The night._


	26. The Broad Strokes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continue to apply Audioslave until directed by your doctor.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWlkmkZW2hk

Castiel had filled Sam in on the broad strokes of the plan, the pies, the song. Sam was almost beside himself with giddiness, nearly unable to contain his excitement and surprise. He never thought Cas capable of grand romantic gestures, or even small ones. He couldn’t hazard a guess as to what his brother’s reaction might be. This was deep, DEEP into chick flick territory. What he did know was that Dean was deeply regretful for not going full chick-flick before, for hurting Cas by acting uncomfortable. He dared to hope that this would all go according to plan.

Castiel had insisted on doing all the work himself. He carried in all the pies and arranged them. He seemed to have a method that was unspoken, known only to him. He’d set a pie down, adjust it slightly, pick it up again and turn it. He set pies on every fourth step of the stairs, then stood at the base and looked up, chin in hand. He mumbled something to himself in his gravelly voice and then rearranged them, adding pies so they were on every third step. He strategically placed pies in the hall, and one right in front of Sam’s bedroom. Sam had watched the whole affair from the corner, biting his lip, trying not to lapse into a fit of giggling. He watched Castiel hold the last pie in his hands, almost cradling it. He shifted from one foot to the other nervously, seeming ready to start down the hall only to stop himself, fighting waves of hesitation and impulsion. Sam slowly walked over to his friend, carefully took the pie from him and gently put it down on the table.

“What’s this one, Cas?” he asked.

“It is apple,” Castiel replied simply.

“Dean’s favorite.”

“Indeed.”

Sam turned and wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders in a light, reassuring side hug.

“Cas, I think you might be some sort of romantic idiot savant,” said Sam, squeezing Castiel.

“I had help,” admitted Castiel in a low, nervous voice.

“Yeah?” said Sam with mild surprise. “From whom?”

“Her name is Charlene and she explained to me that I am not Dean’s rolling wheels, and for that I will be forever grateful.”

“Cas!” exclaimed Sam, releasing and turning toward the angel. “Did you make a…” he paused. “Friend?”

“Yes, I believe I did, Sam,” Castiel nodded affirmatively. “She said that when all is done that the three of us should join her for dinner and a…” Castiel raised his fingers and made air quotes, “John Cusack movie marathon.”

“That sounds real nice, Cas,” said Sam with an easy smile and a nod. “It’s a date.”

Castiel took a deep breath, picked up the final pie, and turned toward the younger Winchester. “You should hide now, Sam,” said the angel gruffly, and with that he vanished in a flutter of feathers and crackle of electricity.

“Shit,” said Sam, suddenly frozen. _Where do I go?_ He ducked low and headed toward the other end of the room and backed behind a bookshelf that served as a divider between the kitchen area and the main living area. It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of his bedroom door open. He peered through the gap between a row of books and the shelf above. It wasn’t long before he saw his brother jog out of the hall, two pies in hand, and stop dead in his tracks. His eyes were wide as they gazed around the room, blinking every time he spotted a new pie. He set one of the pies down on the table and walked toward the stairs, eyes following the pies upward. Sam crammed his fist in his mouth in an effort to stifle his glee. Suddenly, he saw Dean charge up the stairs and blow through the door at the top.

A part of Sam knew he shouldn’t spy on his brother, lest he ruin Cas’ moment, but he couldn’t help himself. So many things about this were unprecedented. He shot out from behind the bookshelf and ran full bore down the hall to the ladder that led to the hatch on the roof. He climbed outside and quietly crept on hands and knees toward the edge that overlooked where Castiel had parked the Impala. Once there he laid down on his stomach, resting his chin on his forearms.

He could see Cas standing in front of the Impala, door open. Slowly, Cas took off his coat, jacket, and tie, and Sam could see him roll up his sleeves. He couldn’t see his brother yet, who had to have been almost directly below him, but he could see Cas’ blue eyes staring intently in a way he’d only ever seen directed at Dean. Cas made a motion with his hand, and suddenly the air lit up with thousands of twinkling lights, like blue LEDs that seemed to have a mind of their own. The beauty of the lights entranced Sam, but then he was snapped back to reality as the Impala roared to life and the stereo kicked on.

At first, Sam didn’t understand what he was hearing. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes, and then he realized what was happening. Cas was singing. _He was singing! This was beyond Lloyd Dobler. He wasn’t holding a boombox. He WAS the boombox._

 _I am not your rolling wheels,_  
_I am the highway,_  
_I am not your carpet ride,_ _  
I am the sky._

It was all Sam could do not to stand and clap. As the song progressed, the tiny lights seemed to swarm around Castiel and fill him with light. His voice intensified, vibrating every molecule for what Sam was sure was miles around. He could see his blue eyes burning and, _shit, was he dancing?_ Cas closed his eyes and moved like a rockstar serenading a crowd. His style reminded Sam of David Bowie. It was like watching a creature who came from another world where dancing meant something completely different than it did on Earth. _Wait, that’s EXACTLY what this is_ , realized Sam. It was then that he finally saw his brother step out and away from the bunker. Sam couldn’t see his face, but he could tell he was shaking.

Suddenly, the light emanating from Castiel became blinding, and in a flash Sam could see two huge, black wings spring out from behind him, swirling with colors. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. He rubbed his eyes, not believing the signals they were sending to his brain. _Son of a bitch_ , he thought incredulously, repeating his brother's catchphrase. _Dean’s a goner for sure_. And with that, he saw his brother drop to his knees in awe.

 _I am not your blowing wind,_  
_I am the lightning,_  
_I am not your autumn moon,_  
_I am the night,_ _  
The night._


	27. I Am the Lightning

As the vocals ended Castiel opened his eyes and saw Dean, on his knees, shaking with tears in his eyes. The time for cool confidence had passed, and Castiel could no longer stay away from his human. He darted forward, great wings spread behind, and skidded across the cold, wet grass on his knees. Once he reached Dean he took both his hands in his own, fingers intertwining at their sides. Castiel leaned in and touched his forehead to Dean’s as his great wings reached out and around, surrounding and shielding the two of them from the world outside. As Castiel’s light pulsed within the protective cocoon of his wings, Dean’s eyes swam with the kaleidoscopic, varicolored shimmer that radiated out from every feather.

“Ca-Cas,” Dean stammered, eyes wet and wanting, “I'm so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Dean,” whispered Castiel, closing his fiery eyes, basking in the radiant relief and desire that filled the spaces between their bodies. “Neither of us is perfect.”

“And that is okay,” they murmured in unison.

They kneeled there for a time, hands clasped together, sharing each other’s warmth and breath. It could have been seconds, days, an eternity. It was as if time ceased being counted in minutes, but instead in heartbeats and intentions and the flickering of eyelashes. Every so often a breeze would ruffle Castiel’s wings and the feathers would tickle the sides of Dean’s arms, sending tiny static shocks of pleasure coursing through his nervous system, and every time it happened Castiel could not help but smile. _I am doing that,_ he thought with pride. _My wings. My touch._

They kneeled there amidst the dancing rainbow light until Dean’s eyes had dried and their breaths came in and out as one. It was Dean who spoke first.

“Angel,” he said softly, “I want you to stand. I want to look at you, the real you.”

“As you wish, Dean,” purred Castiel, soft lips curling into a seraphic smile that Dean knew was for him and him alone.

They helped each other to standing, and then in one graceful movement Castiel opened his wings and stepped back, letting the cold night air crash into Dean. Dean shivered in his bare feet and t-shirt, but quickly forgot about the cold when he saw his angel stand before him. Magnificent did not even come close to describing Castiel. The angel’s ethereal light had faded somewhat but still pulsed just beneath the surface. His eyes glowed softly in the darkness, and the moonlight on his wings made each feather shimmer and dazzle. He felt small, insignificant, pale in comparison. He didn't deserve this, didn't deserve him, and yet he was chosen all the same.

Castiel beheld Dean, the long, lean lines of his body gliding and flexing under his t-shirt, his green eyes twinkling with wonder. Dean, who had fought through Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory and come out on the other side. The man who had dedicated his life to helping those in need, to eradicating evil in all of its forms. The man who valued humanity above all else, and who never gave up on those he loved. Castiel did not deserve this, did not deserve him, and yet he was chosen all the same.

Dean was overtaken by relief and glee, and suddenly he knew exactly what he wanted to say. “Cas,” he called out, biting his lip, voice impish, “so, um, are you NOT my blowing wind?” With that, a huge grin stretched across Dean's face. His nose crinkled and he erupted in laughter, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. Castiel’s glow died down and he folded his wings behind him. Dean looked up and saw the fire in his angel's eyes ignite, a deliberate, resolute look on his face. He strode toward Dean with intent and grace as Dean stood up, feet frozen in place by Castiel’s gaze. Castiel reached around Dean’s waist with his right hand, and while cradling the base of Dean’s neck with his left he swung his human around and down into a perfect dip.

His glow reappeared as he leaned his face down toward Dean’s and said in a low voice husky with desire, “I am the lightning.” 

With that, he kissed Dean hard, passionately. He opened his mouth and pulled Dean into him, deepening the kiss. Their bodies hissed with exquisite static that roiled through their bodies, reprogramming every nerve cell with a new way to feel. Dean held on for dear life, clinging to his angel, moaning softly into his mouth. It was warm, and rough, and electric. It was perfect.

“WOOOOOHOOOOO!” shouted Sam from the roof of the bunker as he jumped up and down and clapped emphatically.

Without breaking away, and perhaps even kissing more passionately, Dean raised the middle finger of his left hand up toward the bunker roof, and Sam smiled all the wider.


	28. Enjoy the Show

Castiel released Dean from the deep kiss, and in one smooth movement brought his friend back to standing. It took a few moments for Dean to reorient himself, to stop the world from spinning. He fixed his gaze on Castiel. His angel’s eyes had returned to their normal, steely blue, glow all but gone. Dean smoothed his hands down Castiel’s arms to his angel’s hands and stayed there. The action sent a shiver of pleasure through them both. Castiel’s glorious wings had disappeared. All that remained was his wild-haired, disheveled friend in shirt sleeves and trousers, a secret smile on his face. 

Castiel could hear Sam whistling from the roof, but he did not need to hear it to know he had done well. Adulation imbued Dean’s face with a softness Castiel had never seen before. It was not just that Dean’s guard was down; Dean’s guard had been razed to the ground, annihilated by Castiel’s gesture. 

Castiel suddenly felt self-conscious, contained within his vessel, no longer rare or special. His confidence began to retreat, and he broke eye contact. He squeezed Dean's hands. 

“Cas, hey…” started Dean softly, “look at me.” Castiel brought his eyes back up and Dean locked him into a serious gaze. “You still with me, pal?”

“Yes,” he replied, low and soft. “Always.”

Dean released Castiel’s hands and brought them up his shoulders. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Cas.”

“I…” Castiel paused. “I am thinking that I must seem diminished now. That you are disappointed you can no longer see me.” His eyes shifted down again.

Dean stepped forward to wrap his arms securely around Castiel, bodies pressing against one another, and he heard a sharp intake of breath. He felt his angel shudder ever so slightly. Dean leaned in and rested his chin on Castiel’s shoulder and murmured, “Cas, I CAN see you. I can always see you.” With that, Dean turned his head slightly and left a small, soft kiss on Castiel’s neck just below his ear, and whispered, “Angel, you're beautiful, now and always.” He slid his cheek along Castiel’s until they were forehead to forehead again, causing Castiel to sigh softly. “I'm an idiot for not telling you that sooner,” Dean said with a wince. 

Castiel’s eyes moistened. He cleared his throat. “Dean,” he said in a low voice heavy with desire, “I believe Sam is still watching us.”

Dean pulled his head back slightly and looked Castiel in the eye. “Yeah, well, he can enjoy the show all he wants,” Dean said in a haughty tone. “That isn't going to bother me ever again.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel growled, “he may not continue to enjoy the show.” His blue eyes flashed mischievously. 

Dean’s eyes widened. He swallowed and nodded. With a wave of his hand, Castiel silenced the engine of the Impala. He wrapped his arms around his human’s waist, and suddenly they vanished with a whoosh of feathers and static. 

Sam stood on the roof of the bunker, smile on his face, lamenting the fact that he had no one to high-five. 


	29. Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

Dean felt himself being pulled through a field of white static, not an unfamiliar feeling as he'd traveled with Castiel this way before. This time was different. Before, it felt disorienting, like his thoughts and body were being dragged in a million directions. Now, he seemed to be in tune with Castiel’s intent. Rather than feeling torn apart, he instead felt a thrumming throughout his body, like he was a guitar string being strummed. Suddenly, the thrumming stopped and he felt as if he’d been dropped through a trap door. He found himself in the middle of his room, Cas’ arms still wrapped tightly around his waist.

“Aw, Cas,” Dean said, trying to hide his disappointment, “this ain’t my room any more. Too many nightmares.”

“If that is your wish,” Castiel said in a low, measured voice. He moved his hands slowly up Dean’s back with featherlight touches. He coaxed Dean in closer, and ran his right hand up his neck to cradle the back of his head. He curled his fingers through Dean’s sandy hair in exactly the way Dean had imagined in the shower, and Dean shivered and hummed through tightly pressed lips. Castiel pressed his stubbly cheek against Dean’s and hummed right back, “I do think that we could do something to help make this a positive space again. My new friend Charlene told me--”

“Wait, what?” said Dean with surprise as he pulled back to raise an eyebrow at his angel. “Friend? Like… a friend? Named Charlene?”

“Yes, she works at the diner and helped me work out--”

“The waitress?!”

“Yes, she is a waitress, and she is also well-versed in--”

Dean lifted a finger and placed it on Castiel’s mouth. “Cas, go back to the part where you tell me you have a friend.”

Castiel took his hand from Dean’s hair and used it to gently pull Dean’s hand from his lips. He tipped his head slightly with a puzzled look that told Dean he just might, just maybe, quite possibly have said something... bad. 

“Dean, why does it confuse you that I have a friend?” the angel asked, sad-eyed.

“Aw, Cas, I don’t mean it like that!” Dean said, scrambling to recover. “It’s, just…”  _ Oh god, Dean, open mouth! Remove foot! _ “...you don’t really have friends.” Dean winced as if to prepare for a blow.

Castiel stared intently at Dean for a moment and then squeezed his hand. “Dean, I have you. I have Sam.” Castiel smiled. “Now I have Charlene. Without her, I most likely would not be here with you right now.”

Dean blinked a few times, then shrugged with a half smile. “Well Cas, if that’s the case, she sounds like a pretty amazing friend,” said Dean affirmatively. 

Castiel released Dean’s hand. “She has invited us over for a ‘John Cusack movie marathon’,” he said making air quotes.

“Chick flicks?” asked Dean suspiciously. 

“Dean,” Castiel replied seriously, “without John Cusack I also would not be here with you right now.”

“Oh.” Dean bit his lower lip. His gaze met Castiel’s deep blue stare, then fell down to his full lips. He traced all the contours of his angel’s face with his eyes, his furrowed brow, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the wild hairs around his temples. He remembered the way Castiel danced in front of the Impala with abandon, performing just for him. Then he smiled. “It’s a date, Cas.”

Castiel replied, “that pleases me, Dean. But now, we need to discuss the matter at hand.”

“My bedroom,” Dean stated flatly with a slight wrinkle of his nose.

“Dean, I would like you to lay down on your bed.”

Dean’s bloodshot eyes widened, “no, Cas, please. I can’t--”

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice came out severely, blue eyes flashing, “you are exhausted, bordering on collapse.”

“But--”

“Dean, you trust me, correct?”

“Yes,” Dean mumbled, eyes down.

“Then let me try to help you.” Castiel’s growl softened to a purr, “please.”

Dean, still in his t-shirt and sweatpants, nodded and walked over to the double bed to lay on his back. Castiel followed slowly, deliberately. 

“No, Dean, you should lay on your side.” Dean complied wordlessly, and with that Castiel quietly removed his dress shirt, shoes, and slacks, folding and stacking them on the metal folding chair the brothers left in the room. He was down to his boxers when he slid into the bed next to his human. Castiel folded one arm and tucked it under his head, and wrapped the other one tightly around Dean, pulling him closer so that the contours of their bodies aligned perfectly. Dean could feel a soothing heat radiating from his angel, and he sighed. 

Castiel brushed his lips against the back of Dean’s neck, breath mingling with the baby-fine hairs that lived there. They laid there in silence for a few minutes, bodies pressed against one another. Eventually, Castiel whispered, “Dean, I want you to focus on my breath. I want you to breath in and out with me, and I want you to listen to your heartbeat rushing in your ears. Can you do that, Dean?”

Dean was unresponsive. In fact, Dean had fallen asleep mere moments after Castiel tucked his arm around him, feeling both comfortable and safe for the first time since he could remember. Castiel slid his leg in between Dean’s and pulled him all the closer. As an angel, Castiel did not need sleep, but he felt more than content pressed up against his human, watching over him as he slept, protecting him from his own subconscious. 


	30. Ramble On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert tape, press play.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7fdZnuCY6A

Dean stood, blinking furiously, trying to clear his vision. He turned his head left, then right, and felt panic rising from the pit of his stomach. All he could see was white, no matter what direction he looked. _Am I blind?_ He brought his shaking hand up to his face and his breath caught; he could see his hand, his arm. His eyes tracked downwards and he could see he was wearing the same t-shirt and sweatpants he had fallen asleep in. His hands went to his neck for the amulet his brother had given him as a child, and he was hit with a wave of relief as his fingers found it. _Where the hell am I?_

He looked down at his feet and felt solid ground underneath, but all he could see was a white plane that stretched on forever in each direction, no horizon in sight. He gazed upward into even more infinite whiteness and was struck with the paralysis of agoraphobia. He had no points of reference, no way to orient himself. He started to walk in one direction, then jog, then run, but the lack of scenery remained constant. He wasn't even sure if he was running in a straight line.

“Get it together, Winchester,” he said to himself, hoping the sound of his own voice would ground him. The vast, white void swallowed up his words; they had no surfaces off of which to reverberate.

Dean stopped in his tracks, realizing the futility of running towards nothing. He began turning in a circle as his panic intensified. Dizziness began to overtake him and he squatted down, taking a knee and pressing one hand into the perfectly white, unblemished ground. It was smooth without being slick, looking almost permeable despite having the hardness of granite. He squeezed his eyes close to block out the vast, open… nothing.

“Cas,” he whispered, “can you hear me? I need help. I--”

Suddenly, Dean felt a crack of thunder behind him and the air tingled with ozone. He felt the strong grip of his angel’s hand on his shoulder, grounding him. Dean reached around to grab Castiel’s hand and the angel helped him scramble to his feet. When he stood he found he had no breath, no words. Castiel stood before him, dressed as he was when he climbed into bed with Dean,wearing nothing but white boxer shorts. This time, however, the bright light of Castiel’s grace pulsed softly, shining into the vast whiteness that surrounded them. His huge black wings were folded behind him, but Dean could still see them sparkling and crackling rainbows that haloed Castiel’s head, neck, and shoulders. His blue eyes burned softly and anchored Dean. He was breathtaking beyond compare, and it brought tears to Dean’s eyes.

“Cas, what the fuck is happening?” cracked Dean’s voice. “Where are we?”

“We are in your mind, Dean,” was Castiel’s throaty reply, soft with concern.

“What? How--”

“You are dreaming again, Dean. You asked me here, and I came.” Castiel paused, light dimming slightly. “I will always come for you.”

Castiel’s voice soothed Dean. It always had, even when it was furious, bored, or challenging. It was only recently that Dean heard Castiel’s voice imbued with the tone he was using now, something in between happiness and hunger, with an undercurrent of angelic grace that Dean could feel Castiel holding back. Dean focused on the bottom vibration, knowing that it was Castiel’s true voice, and the fact that he was the only one who would ever get to hear it caused his body to flush.

The angel stepped toward him slowly, barefooted, softly biting the corner of his lower lip. His eyelashes fluttered nervously. Castiel desperately wanted nothing more than to scoop up his human and throw him to the ground underneath him, pressing him into the infinite whiteness and filling him with his grace and love, but he held back. The sheer effort of it caused his breaths to come out quick and shallow, and his skin flushed a rosy pink that matched Dean’s.

Castiel cleared his throat. “Dean,” he said softly, “this is a beautiful space.”

Dean was having trouble concentrating, discerning the meaning of Castiel’s words from the tones of his intentions. “I, uh… is it? It’s scaring the hell out of me currently.”

Castiel was an arm’s length from Dean. “It is a blank slate, Dean,” the angel purred. “It means you have banished your demons.” Castiel couldn’t help but to run his hand along the length of Dean’s arm, starting at the knuckles and travelling up to the elbow where it rested. Dean shivered, and his flush deepened.

“So, what then? My demons are gone, and now there’s nothing left?” Dean’s face looked pinched, tinged with self-disappointment.

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel said, the angelic tone deepening, “it is not your fault.” He took another step toward Dean so that they were toe-to-toe, and he slid his hand from Dean’s elbow under Dean’s t-shirt and along his tricep. “Your demons are responsible for pushing everything else out, not you.”

Dean felt weak, small, and barely coherent. Without external stimuli, the angel was literally everything. Dean casted his watery eyes down as he mumbled, “so, I’m nothing now?”

Castiel brought his free hand up to Dean’s face and swiped a thumb under his eye, wiping away a tear. His tone deepened and softened, and Dean could feel it vibrate through his body like a soothing touch. “No, no… Dean, you are whatever you want to be.”

“Wha-what do you mean?” asked Dean, shakily.

Castiel gently released Dean and took a step back. Dean couldn’t help but whimper. “Dean,” commanded the angel lovingly, “please hand me the cassette tape player.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Wait, what tape player?”

“The one sitting on the stool behind you,” replied Castiel, a sly smile betraying his intentions. Dean whipped around and there, behind him, was a wooden stool. Resting on its seat was a black, battery operated audio cassette player.

“What in the hell…?” Dean stood, mouth agape.

“Dean,” the angel feigned impatience with an outstretched hand, “the player?” Dean numbly grabbed the player and handed it to Castiel.

“And the tape, please?”  
Dean blinked rapidly. “Tape?”

“Yes, Dean. The one in your pocket.”

Dean dug into his sweat pants pocket, face screwed up in perplexity, and produced a white, plastic cassette. He held it out with two fingers, mouth slightly open, brow furrowed. Castiel leaned forward, lean muscles rolling just under the skin, and plucked the tape from Dean’s hand. He slid it into the tape slot and pushed it closed.  He then presented the whole player back to Dean with a huge, open-mouthed grin.

“Dean! You are doing excellent work!” Castiel said proudly.

“Uh, Cas? WHAT IS GOING ON!?” Dean was breathing hard, eyes glassy and darting from Castiel, to the tape player, then his hands, and finally back to Castiel. He threw his shaking hands out to his sides and made a wide-eyed face that communicated very clearly, _help me out, man!_

“Dean,” soothed the angel, “just take the player.”

“Fine!” Dean said anxiously as he snatched the player away.

Castiel took a step back toward Dean and smoothed his palm across Dean’s tense back muscles. Dean recoiled a bit at first, but then relaxed into the gentle, reassuring touch.

“Dean, I want you to pick a song. It can be any song, but I suggest for the purposes of this exercise it be one you enjoy.”

Dean closed his eyes for a second and then opened them. “Okay, angel, what next?”

“Press play.”

Dean depressed the button, and suddenly the tiny speakers began to play, so surprising Dean that he dropped the player. Castiel’s hand shot out and caught it just in time.

_Leaves are falling all around,_   
_It's time I was on my way,_   
_Thanks to you I'm much obliged,_   
_For such a pleasant stay,_   
_But now it's time for me to go,_   
_The autumn moon lights my way,_   
_For now I smell the rain,_   
_And with it pain,_ _  
And it's headed my way._

“R-ramble On?” stuttered Dean. “Cas, how did you do that?” he asked incredulously. Dean’s mind was reeling. Castiel was using some serious magician mojo and the opacity of it was quite terrifying.

_Ah, sometimes I grow so tired,_ _  
_ _But I know I've got one thing I got to do._

“Dean,” Castiel soothed, “You did that, not I. This is your mind, your place. You control everything here. I told you the tape player was there, and you believed me. I told you the tape was there, and you believed me again. You chose the song on the tape. It is all you, Dean.”

_Ramble on,_   
_And now's the time, the time is now,_   
_To sing my song,_   
_I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl._   
_On my way,_   
_I've been this way ten years to the day,_   
_Ramble on,_ _  
Gotta find the queen of all my dreams._


	31. Not a "No"

Castiel stood almost cocksure next to Dean, wings folded, holding the tape player in one hand as casually as one could while also radiating celestial light. His other hand rested reassuringly on Dean’s back, radiating warmth that spread throughout Dean’s torso.

_Got no time for spreadin' roots,_   
_The time has come to be gone._   
_And to'our health we drank a thousand times,_ _  
It's time to Ramble On._

“So, I can just think of something and it will appear?” Dean asked, quizzically.

Castiel began to trace his fingers up and down Dean’s spine. “If you want it to, yes.”

“What about you? Can you make things appear?”

“I can interact with your dream, but it takes a great deal of will to change anything about it. Vaporizing your shades required--”

“Righteous angel mojo?”

Castiel waited a second to reply. “Love.”

Castiel’s hand had made its way to the base of Dean's neck where it gave a light squeeze. He gave Dean a sideways glance and his eyelashes and wings fluttered simultaneously. His feathers grazed Dean's arm, an electric jolt of pleasure shooting straight to his brain, his heart, his groin. Castiel and Dean both moaned softly. Castiel squeezed a little harder.

Castiel caught his breath. “Dean, where would you most like to be right now? What do you want?”

Dean turned toward his angel with eyes filled to the brim with lust. He struggled to find the words. “Here,” he said softly, lost the the blue gaze and white light that filled all the spaces in his mind and heart. “You.”

With that, Castiel lost all semblance of composure. He let the tape deck clatter to the ground as he rushed into Dean, wings flaring and flashing. He wrestled Dean free of his t-shirt and threw it aside. They were chest to chest, pelvises crashing into one another. They stepped into the spaces between each other’s legs, eliminating every gap, groping desperately for purchase. Their mouths collided, opening and closing in unison, tongues searching for something they didn't know they had been missing until now. Dean ran both hands up Castiel’s neck and through his hair, and Castiel’s light intensified.

“PULL,” he growled, and Dean instantly complied, arching his angel’s back to expose the flushed skin of Castiel’s neck. They moaned and whimpered, and Dean took Castiel’s lower lip between his teeth and tugged.

They could feel one another, shockingly, unbearably hard, pressing through the thin layers of clothing that separated them. Castiel shifted his weight forward and then brought his pelvis up, grinding against Dean. Dean let out a ragged gasp, a needy sob that begged for more, for everything.

“D-dean,” shuddered Castiel, the low tones of his voice deepening, filling the infinite white space, shaking the core of Dean until it was all he knew. “Can you hear my voice? My real voice?”

Dean nodded wordlessly, tears filling his eyes as he sealed his mouth with Castiel’s. They hummed into each other, Dean’s noises taunting Castiel to hold tighter and reach deeper, and Castiel’s fathomless vibrations utterly dissolving Dean’s will until he was putty in the angel’s hands.

Dean pulled his mouth away, fluttering eyes rolling back into his head. His breath came in tattered gasps as Castiel continued to thrust against Dean’s leg, his hands releasing his angel’s hair and sliding down his shoulders.

“Cas,” he breathed heavily, locking eyes with his angel, struggling to find the right words. Castiel blinked and his movement slowed, bright light dimming to a soft glow. He brought his hand up to cup Dean’s jaw.

“What is it, Dean?” purred Castiel, voice lessened in intensity.

“I… I want to touch them.”

“Them?” Castiel blushed, breathlessly playful.

“I mean you, you, your wings,” Dean stammered.

Castiel smiled wide. “Dean, no human has ever touched an angel’s wings before.”

Dean pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry Cas, that was stupid, I didn’t mean--”

Cas ran his hand up the side of Dean’s face. “That is not a ‘no’, Dean,” he growled lustily. He leaned into Dean’s ear and whispered, “Wake up.”


	32. Boop pt.2: Revenge of Boop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it's time for schmoopy, gratuitous wing angst with a touch of smut.

Dean yawned deeply, squeezing his eyes tightly. He arched his back and stretched, extending his legs and arms in opposite directions.

 _Damn, I feel so much better_ , thought Dean. _Finally, some decent sleep!_ He opened his eyes and let his head flop to one side.

_Holy shit!_

There laid Cas, propped up on one arm, a wily yet beatific smile dancing on his face. Suddenly, memories of his dream inundated Dean in waves. The blinding, neverending whiteness. The sudden appearance of his boxer-clad angel. The tape deck. Cas’ face. His eyes. His lips. His heat.

Slowly, Castiel raised his hand and very gently poked Dean on the nose with the tip of his index finger. “Boop,” he said in a gravelly, playful voice.

Dean blinked slowly, wide-eyed. “Did you just… boop me?”

Castiel painted a serious face over his extreme amusement and cleared his throat. “Yes Dean, I was recently introduced to the boop technique by--”

“Lemme guess, Charlene?”

Castiel’s smile broke through. “Do you not like it?”

“Nah, Cas, that was just about the best boop I’ve ever had,” Dean snorted. His chuckle turned into a chortle, which ran away into a fit that had him sitting up in the bed, doubled over laughing. Castiel began to look concerned.

“Dean,” he intoned lowly, “are you okay?” He sat up and placed a hand carefully on his human’s back.

Dean took a deep breath and tried to speak, but another titter squeaked out. “Aw, Cas! It feels good to laugh!”

“So, you are pleased?” Castiel asked carefully.

“Very, Cas. Boop away.”

Dean angled his body toward Cas and realized that the angel was still sans clothing with the exception of his white boxer shorts. He felt a shiver trace up and down his spine only to settle low in his gut where it went for cold to warm to burning. “How long did I sleep, Cas?”

“You slept soundly for many hours before you began dreaming,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Wait, did you lay here that whole time?” Dean asked, voice tinged with guilt.

Castiel tilted his head, eyes narrowing with uncertainty. “Was that not the expectation?”

“Cas!” exclaimed Dean, “you didn’t have to watch over me!”

Castiel looked down at his lap, legs folded under him. “Dean, I wanted to. I wanted to be near you. It gives me great pleasure to look after you and make sure you are safe.” He paused, swallowed, then continued, “and when I am near you it makes me feel safe as well.” Castiel let the hand he had pressed against Dean’s back drop to the bed.

Dean snatched up his wounded angel’s hand and brought it up to his shoulder. Cas made him feel like a teenager again, boiling over with hormones and emotions.

“Cas, look at me,” Dean said gruffly. “This hand?” Dean pressed Castiel’s hand into his shoulder, “this hand saved my life, pulled me out of Hell, because you were watching over me. Because you always watch over me.” Dean gave the hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry for never appreciating that work. For never thanking you.”

Castiel exhaled a small puff of breath through his nostrils. “Actually, Dean,” said Castiel solemnly, “it was this hand.” With that, he lifted his left hand and gently tapped Dean on the nose, silently mouthing the word _boop_.

“Dammit, Cas!” exclaimed Dean in faux anger, “I’m trying to have a moment here!” He playfully shoved the angel, who was caught off balance. Castiel started windmilling his arms as he slid off the edge of the bed, eyes wide, and then suddenly he was gone in a flash of static and rustle of feathers.

“Cas?” called Dean quietly, leaning toward the edge of the bed.

“Yes?” replied the angel who was now standing directly behind him.

Dean jumped out of his skin, scrambling to turn in the bed but getting caught up in the blankets. “Jesus, Cas!”

“Language, Dean,” growled the angel, eyebrow raised mischievously. He leaned down toward Dean, placing a hand on the bed, following it with a knee. He pushed Dean down and back with his other hand and crawled over him, straddling him. Dean was dumbfounded, propping himself up on his elbows, watching his angel’s muscles tighten and slacken and he sat up to give Dean a whole new view.

“Dean, you should remove your shirt,” murmured the angel, words thick with desire.

Dean blinked rather than spoke and then scrambled to pull off the t-shirt, no small feat considering his prone position. Castiel made no effort to speed the process or help in any way. In fact, Dean could swear he felt Castiel squeeze his legs together tighter, pinning Dean’s hips. Dean couldn’t help but to buck up into them slightly.

Castiel beheld Dean and felt his grace swell and pulse inside of him. He felt strong, confident. He knew what he wanted; he wanted to see Dean Winchester absolutely begging. HIS human, HIS Dean, absolutely wrecked by adoration. He relished Dean’s shallow panting, his sleep-mussed hair, the way he could feel him straining and aching underneath his pelvis. He leaned down, nipples brushing against Dean’s chest, and he could hear the air catch in his throat.

“Do you remember what you asked me in your dream, Dean?” murmured Castiel languidly, his heavy-lidded azure eyes flashing with hidden intent.

Dean was paralyzed with lust. He could barely remember his own name. Only one word kept repeating over and over in his head.

“Cas,” he sighed piteously, “oh Cas, Cas…” His breathing became more labored. Those eyes burning into him, the heat of him pressing down. He wanted nothing more than to feel those long, strong hands kneading the muscles of his chest, trailing along the length of his jaw, but the angel kept them away.

“Ask me your question again,” he instructed his human. Dean responded with a moan. “Now, Dean, that will not do.” He pressed his mouth into Dean’s softly, closed-lipped, and then gently nipped at his lower lip.

Dean suddenly found his tongue. “Aw, to Hell with this!” he gasped, reaching up toward Castiel to pull him down onto him, but Castiel caught his hands and pinned them above his head. He then ground down on Dean, hard. Castiel could feel Dean’s erection pressing into him, which only served to further embolden the angel.

“Ask your question, Dean,” growled Castiel. “And you should ask… politely.” The angel’s eyes glowed softly.

No one had ever spoken to Dean like this before, treated him this way before. He could feel the angel’s love washing over him, but the angel was acting downright dominant. Brash. Cocky. Dean felt completely helpless, and he loved every fucking second of it. For once he didn’t need to be vigilant. He didn’t need to protect anyone. He didn’t even need to think about himself. He could let Castiel take the wheel, and he felt confident that he’d love the destination. He swallowed.

“Cas,” his voice said, cracking, “will you… please let me touch your wings?”

The look on Dean’s face was the beginning, and his pleading voice was the end. Grace that Castiel could barely control surged through his body, illuminating every curve and crevice, and firing up his eyes. His huge, black wings exploded out behind him in a rainbow fury of sparkling electricity. He reached underneath Dean and pulled him up into a seated position with Castiel still straddling. He wrapped his arms tightly around Dean and whispered into his ear something Dean didn’t understand. The words seemed to have some purpose of their own, and he could feel their intent swimming through his conscious mind.

“Wha--Cas? What was that?” Dean whispered breathlessly.

“It’s Enochian,” Castiel whispered in reply. “It means, “you may.”

Castiel slowly, luxuriously backed off of his human, who elicited a piteous moan the stiffened Castiel to rock-hard attention under his boxers. Upon standing, he flexed the muscles of his chest and back, spreading every glorious, swirling feather to its full extension. From his vantage point on the bed, Dean could see the wings in clear detail. The feathers were as inky as an oil slick, pulsing with colors that his brain strained to name. They were layered, with shorter, softer feathers on top yielding to longer ones mid-wing. The bottoms of the wings were comprised of long, broad, strong-looking feathers that shone like mirrors reflecting back a night sky. Dean was overcome, wrecked, and broken by their beauty. He felt helpless, and tears filled his eyes because he had never seen anything so breathtaking.

Castiel tucked his wings in slightly as he turned around in the small room until his back was facing Dean. He ached for Dean’s nearness. He was sitting on the bed, but he might as well have been miles away. He was just about to verbally prompt Dean, but then he heard the springs of the bed squeak. He could sense his human getting closer, shivering in the static.

Dean took a deep breath. _Get it together, man. Be cool. Quit shaking._ He raised one hand up to gently-- _shit, where do I even start?_ This was wholly unfamiliar territory and, despite Castiel’s apparent confidence, he knew the same went for his angel as well. His stomach flip flopped between gobsmacked awe and unquenchable carnality with dizzying fervor. He could see Castiel writhe and flex, presenting himself more prominently, arching toward Dean in anticipation. Dean could hear his shallow, labored breath.

The anticipation was twisting Castiel into knots. He was absolutely terrified. No one had ever touched his wings before, no angel, no human. His wings were extraplanar, and the fact that he could manifest them at all on Earth was a sign that something was different now. Somehow his feelings for Dean, his desires, his adoration, allowed him to bring them forth and keep them materialized. Everything about his new paradigm was unfamiliar, rollicking, and risky. So many points of failure. He tried desperately to project an air of confidence because he wanted to be that for Dean. Confident, caring, and full of purpose. No hesitations, no reservations, just Castiel, Angel of the Lord. He could feel Dean’s hand grow closer and then croaked, “No, wait.”

Dean stopped abruptly, mere inches from where Castiel’s glorious wings met his shoulders, smooth skin merging with fine, silky black feathers. Castiel’s light dimmed to a barely noticeable glow and Dean could see the feathers quiver.

Dean pressed his lips together and shivered. He was so close. Something was wrong and he knew it, and he withdrew his hand. “Cas, he whispered hoarsely, “talk to me.”

Castiel remained presented, and whispered back, “I am afraid.”

“Why, Cas?”

“I am not a human. I am not a woman. I have never done this before, and despite everything feeling right I am not sure if it actually is right. I know what I want, but I also know that if we move forward now we can never go back.” His feathers shivered again.

Dean was so wrapped up in his dominant Castiel that he hadn’t stopped to think about ramifications, hadn’t wanted to. Everything about this had felt so right, despite the realities of the situation being counter to the previous status quo. He didn’t care that Castiel wasn’t human, or a woman. He was Cas, goddamn Angel of the Lord, a whole new category that Dean had never dreamed could be an option until now.

“Cas,” Dean said, gruffness tinged with adoration, “I don’t want to go back, ever. This is Manifest Destiny, Angel. You’re Lewis, I’m Clark, and I wanna take this road all the way to the ocean.”

Castiel wiped away tears with heels of his hands, folded his wings, and turned toward Dean. “Are you sure?” he rasped.

“Never been more sure of anything, Angel.”

Castiel looked down and didn’t speak for a moment. Then finally, in nothing more than a whisper, he said, “I believe you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean stepped forward and took Castiel’s head in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “We can do this, or not. Cas, I just want you to be--”

Castiel suddenly brought his hands to the sides of Dean’s face and pressed in to kiss him. It was not the hot and heavy teasing from before, but instead soft, sad, and grateful. Their lips were just barely parted, tongues flicking lightly in and out, mouths moving as one. Though Dean’s eyes were closed, he could feel Castiel’s heat and light intensifying once more. Castiel pulled himself in deeper, soft lips and curious tongue exploring more. He intertwined his tongue with Dean’s, trying to take him all in, mind flooded with one phrase over and over. _I am your angel. I am your angel._

Suddenly, without a conscious thought, Castiel began to spread his wings once again. They unfurled slowly and Dean could hear them rustling. He broke away from Castiel’s kiss to watch them expand gloriously, swirling with light and color. He pulled Castiel back in with a desperate, deeper kiss that left them both breathless. Then he kissed him again, lustily, on the angel’s cheek. A kiss on the neck, and then another on his collarbone. The angel arched backward, bringing his wings to full extension, quavering and filling the room. Dean’s teeth grazed Castiel’s neck and the angel’s breath hitched in his throat. Another one on the jaw, and then Dean began to whisper, each word punctuated with increasingly animalistic kisses. “You. Are. Magnificent.”

“Oh, Dean,” sighed Castiel, eyes upward and closed. Castiel took Dean’s hands and brought them to his shoulders. He opened his eyes and Dean could see them glowing with an intense wanting. His mouth opened and a deep, reverberating voice dripping with sex commanded, “Touch me.”

Dean didn’t need to hear it twice. His breath quickened as he slid his hands over Castiel’s shoulder and down his spine to where his wings met his back. He lightened his pressure and gently, delicately, ran his fingertips along the feathery junction.

“Ahhhh,” Castiel shuddered, knees weakening. He fell forward against Dean and wrapped his arms around his human’s torso for support. It was as if Dean’s hands were not there on his back, but everywhere at once. It felt like every nerve fiber was a string on some great instrument, and that Dean was playing them all simultaneously.

Dean’s hands thrummed with electricity, feeling heat and desire that intensified in the bottom of his abdomen. Castiel nearly collapsed in his arms and they both surged with a wave of pleasure. A huge smile grew on his face, and he knew he was doing well. He brought his hands back up to his angel’s face and he watched his friend whimper. “Angel,” he said gently, voice quavering, “turn around.”

Castiel complied wordlessly, composing himself the best he could, folding his wings and turning. Dean took him by hand and guided him to the bed. “Lay face down.” He helped his shaking friend down onto his stomach, the edge of Castiel’s wings grazing Dean’s side and sending his cock twitching. _This is hands down, by far, the hottest thing I’ve ever seen._

Castiel laid his cheek down on a pillow and gripped it with both hands. He never thought he could feel like this, so alive, so powerful, so helpless. He knew the power his wings had over Dean, and the power Dean had over his wings, over him. He extended them fully and tried to relax, letting them droop slightly to graze the ground. He could feel Dean slide into the bed to straddle his legs. “Dean, stop,” he said breathlessly. Dean froze. “Take off your pants,” he grinned into the pillow. “I promise I will not peek,” the angel sighed, pressing his hips into the mattress.

Dean didn’t need to be told again. He tugged the waistband of his sweat pants down and let them drop to his feet. He stood erect, painfully hard, wincing as the charged air of the room washed over him. He nearly collapsed back onto the bed but caught himself, and caressed his hand along the inside of Castiel’s lean, strong leg. “Angel?” he said in a shaky voice, asking permission.

“Yes, Dean,” he growled into the pillow, and then he spoke in Enochian again, the same words as before. _You may._


	33. Galaga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam, meet Charlene.

Sam stayed on the roof of the bunker for a few minutes after Dean and Castiel had disappeared, mind clouded with a million questions. What was next? Was there a new normal now? And if so, what would it look like? Schmoopy? Angsty? He knew both men had tempers, and were stubborn as hell. What kinds of fights would they have? Would they be all over one another, or would they keep it in the closet? And what the hell were they, anyhow? Boyfriends? Lovers? Or just a boy and his pet angel?

Sam knitted his fingers behind his head, leaned back, and looked up at a sky smattered with a trillion stars. He couldn’t help but smile, but anxiety fluttered in the pit of his stomach. What was his role now? Would he see his brother less? Would they work less? Would Cas come on jobs more often? Most importantly, would Sam have to sit in the backseat?

Sam chuckled to himself, but then paused.

_ What if I do take the backseat?  _ Sam thought apprehensively.  _ Dean always says that family comes first, but family dynamics change. In a dangerous situation, who’s back will Dean have? Mine, or his angel’s? _

Sam let his hands fall down to his sides and shifted uncomfortably from one boot to the other. He looked out over the misty field and noticed the Impala, door still ajar.  _ That won’t make Dean very happy, _ he thought.

He walked back to the hatch and slid down the ladder. He treaded quietly down the hall and paused at his bedroom door.  _ Oh lord, I hope they aren’t in there. _ He wrinkled his nose and carefully pushed the door open.  _ Empty, _ he thought with relief. He continued down the hall and paused at Dean’s door, listening. He heard nothing, but didn’t dare check. He continued to the bathroom, where he found Dean’s clothing still crumpled on the floor. He gingerly picked up his brother’s jeans and fished a set of keys from his pocket. He continued to the end of the hall and saw them. 

_ The pies. So many pies.  _ Castiel had worked so hard, planned so carefully. Sam couldn’t just let them sit around on the floor and the ground outside. He set the keys down on the large map table with a sigh and went about the business of pie corralling. He picked up the pies from the floor and all of the ones on the stairs, bringing them back to the table two at a time. He went outside and picked up the pie path, and when he got them all on the table there were a dozen and a half all told. He wrinkled his nose in thought, and then began rearranging them on the table. When he was done, he smirked at his handiwork. They spelled out one word in large letters: ASS.

Sam grabbed the keys from the table and ran up the stairs to move the Impala. Once he stepped through the door and saw the car he was hit with the realization that he was looking at it from Dean’s vantage point. The angel had stood there, directly in front of him, all wild hair and bedroom eyes.  _ Cas had sang. He’d fucking danced! He shot magic fucking light out of every pore and exploded goddamn wings from his back, all for Dean. Because of Dean.  _ Sam let slip a small, sad, side smile. Nothing like that was ever going to happen to Sam. _ I don’t even think I could handle something like that,  _ he thought. His mind was sloshing with hang ups and confusion.  _ Both people I could possibly talk to about this are actually the people I need to talk about. My life could be a TV show. _

Sam looked at the keys in his hand, then up at the Impala, and then back to his hand.  _ Screw this, _ he thought,  _ I need a drink. _

Sam rolled the Impala into town and parked out front of Dante’s, one of the local bars. He walked through the doors and was greeted by the kitchy, roadhouse decor, pool table, and classic arcade cabinets. It was a slow night, and loud 70’s rock music was blaring in the background. He walked to the bar and asked the bartender, a middle aged man named Dave who looked perpetually unamused, for one of the “snooty” beers on tap. Dean usually ordered them inoffensive, American lagers in bottles that served as palate cleansers for the whisky he drank, so Sam relished the opportunity to order something he actually enjoyed without Dean ribbing him.

He leaned against the bar, sipping his pint, and then noticed the Galaga machine in the corner.

_ Why the hell not?  _ He thought. He was alone, no one here to judge him. He never got to play video games as a kid, and they always had the allure of the unattainable. He strolled over to it casually, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a quarter. He inserted it into the slot and hit the start button.  _ This is a game for kids, how hard could it be? _ Within 30 seconds, he died. Game Over.

Sam wrinkled his brow and dug out another quarter. This time he made it 45 seconds before the game again mocked his failure. Another quarter, then another, and then three dollars later Sam made it a whole two minutes before all his ships were destroyed. He hustled up to the bar to make change for a five dollar bill, and when he turned around he saw someone had swooped in and claimed the machine as their own.

Annoyance pinched Sam’s face and he walked back to the machine, hands in his pockets. He saw that the usurper was a woman, late twenties, tall, sturdy, and vaguely androgynous. She wore skinny jeans and those Toms slip-on shoes, a grey cardigan over a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, and dangling earrings that looked like silver human brains. She had a severe, black bob and was clearly far, far better at Galaga than Sam. She looked so out of place, yet somehow right at home.

“Ahem,” Sam cleared his throat. The woman ignored him, focusing on the little spaceship. “Uh…” he began, “I was playing that game. I just went to the bar to get quarters and--”

“Did you call dibs?” asked the woman, eyes unwavering from the task at hand.

“Dibs?” he replied.

“You didn’t leave a quarter on the machine,” she said tersely, seemingly annoyed that she had to divide her attention. “The machine was open, so I played. Jeez, you don’t even know about dibs? Have you even played a video game before--”

Suddenly, her little ship was hit and it was game over for her, too. 

“Dammit!” she said in mock frustration, turning from the game toward Sam, blue eyes flashing. “Dude, you killed me!” she said with a smirk. “I guess it’s your turn again,” she said with an exaggerated shrug and a wink. Sam stood frozen.

She looked Sam up and down and said, somewhat impressed, “you’re tall.”

Sam looked confused for a moment and replied, “you’re also tall?” voice lilting upward as if it were a question rather than a statement.

She nodded solemnly. “The struggle is real.” She fished a quarter from her pocket and inserted it into the machine. “Okay, fellow beanstalk. Come over here and lemme show you how it’s done.”

Over the next twenty minutes, Sam learned all of the tips and tricks required for Galaga dominance.

“Okay, first clear all the ships but the two blue ones on the far left. Let the alien ship capture your current ship--”

“Wait, why would I do that?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it back later. Okay, wait, no, don’t shoot your own ship!”

“But then what do I shoot?”

“Anything but that!”

“But wait, how do you win?”

“You don’t win.”

“Wait, what?”

“You don’t win. You just don’t die.”

After they had both exhausted their quarters, the woman looked Sam up and down again, noticed their empty glasses, and gestured to a table. 

“You sit right there, BFG, and I will return shortly.”

“BFG?” Sam asked quizzically as he complied with the woman’s request.

“Big Friendly Giant? Roald Dahl?”

Sam wrinkled his brow and shook his head slightly.

“Wow, you really didn’t have a childhood, did you?”

The woman walked up to the bar and spoke to the bartender.  _ Wait a second, was Dave smiling? Did they just high-five? _ The woman returned with two of the same beers Sam had originally ordered. The woman smiled broadly and slid into the chair across from Sam.

“So,” the woman began, “tell me about yourself. Name, rank, favorite song by The Cure?”

Sam swallowed. This woman had more self-possession than anyone he’d previously encountered. She was friendly, but not phony. He could tell that she was smart, almost intimidatingly so. He did not anticipate the events of the evening leading to this destination. 

“I, uh…” Sam trailed off. Sam’s music choices were generally severely limited by the fact that Dean always got to choose the music they listened to in the Impala. He had his own personal music collection on his phone that he would listen to in his room or on runs, and did in fact have a secret passion for The Cure. “I like  _ Why Can’t I Be You _ a lot,” he mumbled.

The woman’s eyes lit up. “Yes! So underappreciated! Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me is a fucking great album!”

Sam chuckled to himself. He  _ really _ liked this woman.

“Okay, pal, what’s your name? What’s a guy like you doing in a place with such low ceilings?”

“Uh, I’m Sam.”

The woman’s expression froze. “Wait, your name is  _ Sam _ ? You don’t happen to be related to a Dean, do you?”

It was Sam’s turn to freeze. “...Charlene?”

Charlene’s face exploded with excitement. “Oh my god! Oh my god! You ARE Sam!” She bounced excitedly in her chair, wide-eyed, mouth agape, little brains swinging back and forth.

Sam opened his mouth and closed it a few times, no words coming out. The coincidence was startling. 

Charlene reached across the table and took Sam’s hand. “You have to tell me EVERYTHING. I am dying to talk to someone about this. Literally. My heart will stop.”

Sam gulped. “I’m sorry, this is all very… strange.”

Charlene squeezed Sam’s hand and thumped it on the table. “I KNOW, right?”

Sam clenched his jaw and nodded. 

Charlene let go of Sam’s hand and brought her fingertips up to her temples. “Oh, lord, where do I even start?” Suddenly, she looked up at Sam, snapped her fingers, and pointed. “You need to tell me about Castiel.” Her face eked out a sly smile and her sentences came out rapid-fire. “That boy is something else. Adorable! And weird. And lovely! Did you know he didn’t know who John Cusack was?”

“Yeah, that became apparent when he got back home.”

“Did everything go well? With the pies and the music?”

Sam broke into a grin, “oh, like you wouldn’t believe.”

Her eyes widened. “Did he love it? I knew he’d love it! He loved it, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, Charlene, I can safely say that it was the most elaborate display of affection I’ve ever seen.”

Charlene’s jaw went slack. “You mean to say you got to… watch it?!”

Sam smirked. “Let’s just say I kinda, snuck a peek.”

Charlene leaned in and slapped Sam in the arm. “You little perv!” she teased.

Sam held both hands up. “Heeey, not like that.”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, then winked. “So, Sam… what’s up with Castiel? I mean, really? He’s… odd. Don’t get me wrong, he’s wonderful and I hope we become fast friends, but something is off with him. He’s not quite…”

“Human?” Sam winced.

“Yeah! Exactly! There’s this ethereal quality to him, like he’s partly here and partly somewhere else. He dresses like a depressed accountant, has a voice like a supervillain, and eyes like a sad puppy who knows the mysteries of the infinite universe.”

“That’s probably the most accurate description of Castiel I’ve ever heard,” said Sam, sipping his beer.

“Oh, and your brother! The way he talked about your brother made him seem like god’s gift to earth!”

Sam choked on his beer. “You don’t say?”

“I have NEVER seen someone so broken up about a boy before. He had all but given up. Your Dean’s a bit of a head fuck, isn’t he?”

“Oh, you have NO idea.”

Charlene leaned in. “Where did they meet, anyhow?”

Sam swallowed. “Um, in Hell?”

“So wait, were they soldiers?”

“Of a kind.”

“Oh, you’re worse than Castiel! So cryptic!” She leaned back in her chair and stared him down. Sam tried to look away but got stuck in her fierce, blue eyes. She raised an eyebrow and said, “we need more beer.” Up she popped again, and sauntered over to Dave. She was graceful, Sam thought, but didn’t put on airs. She didn’t look to be the type to try to impress anyone, yet she was still quite impressive. As she leaned against the bar, Sam could see a knife clipped to her belt, a nasty kerambit with a hooked blade. That was no common-place self-defense weapon. That knife could gut someone like a trout. Sam pursed his lips and nodded in approval.  _ Good choice.  _

Charlene returned with a pitcher of beer in one hand and two shots of something brown in another. She handed one to Sam and then clinked their glasses together. “Loose lips sink ships!” and down the hatch it went.

Sam grimaced. “Oh, god, what was that?”

“Rum.”

“Rum?”

“Yeah! Rum is a happy drink. Whiskey is a sad drink. I don’t wanna get sad drunk with you, Sammy.” 

_ She called me Sammy. Only Dean calls me that. _

“So you’re trying to get me drunk?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said with an easy smile. “Look, Sam, turnabout is fair play. You can ask me questions first, and then later I’ll ask mine. When you are more… pliable.”


	34. Why Can't I Be You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter requires two songs by The Cure for maximum enjoyment.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HxXwZ0H1oj0
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vUX8h0nURGA
> 
> Can I just say I love the universe wherein Sam LOVES The Cure?

Two pitchers of beer and an assortment of shot glasses later, Sam could safely say he was having a grand time. He had learned many things about Charlene, including that, six months ago, she had moved to town from Seattle to take care of her ailing mother. She’d been born in Kansas, but her mother suffered from manic depression and her father moved her to the west coast to shield her from the worst of it. When she found out her mother was terminally ill she returned back home to try and care for her.

She had left her job at a tech startup running social media marketing, and unfortunately she’d been unable to find a new job in her wheelhouse. That’s how she ended up at the diner. Cost of living around here wasn’t exactly expensive, but it was more than nothing, and her mother’s disability checks barely covered her own living expenses. She had her savings, which she’d lived on for a while, but start-ups didn’t have stock options or severance pay.

“Life’s pretty dull, y’know?” said Charlene thoughtfully. “But being down here has taught me that my other life, my old life? That was dull, too.”

Sam nodded in agreement. “I’ve travelled all over this country and it’s pretty much the same everywhere you go. Go to school, get a job. Work the job until you are too old, and pray you have enough money to live on until you die. The American Dream.”

Charlene nodded vigorously. “Exactly! You can do that anywhere! Doesn’t matter if it’s Seattle, Lebanon, Austin, Chicago… really the only major difference is the availability of an excellent hot dog.”

“Oh, god,” groaned Sam. “Now I really want a hot dog.”

Charlene chuckled. “That can be arranged, Sammy.” She stood and snagged a zip-up hooded sweatshirt from a hook on the wall. “Meet me outside,” she politely commanded.

Sam stood up and wobbled slightly, then headed to the door. She could hear Charlene settling the bill with Dave, and could have sworn he heard him say, “go get’m, tiger.”

Sam stood outside for only a minute until the door flew open and out bounded Charlene.

“C’mere!” she commanded from the sidewalk curb, pointing down emphatically. Sam smiled and walked over to her, hands in his pockets.

Charlene placed her hands proudly on her hips, and said in a very stately voice, “I have been waiting a very long time for a worthy adversary. Being six feet tall puts me in a whole other league.”

“A league of what?” asked Sam, leaning toward her.

With that, Charlene turned and walked to the wall of the bar, then made a sharp half turn. With that she was off, arms and legs pumping as she sprinted to the edge of the curb and jumped far into the air. She hit the ground running, a full car’s length out into the parking lot. She threw her arms into the air and jogged in a small circle, letting out a triumphant whoop into the early morning darkness.

“Beat that!” she challenged.

“So, feats of strength, huh?” he said with a grin.

“Sam, if you can beat that jump, I swear I won’t ask you another question. However--” she walked up to Sam and poked him in the chest, “if you can’t, not only do you have to answer all of my questions, but you also have to come back to my place and eat hot dogs.”

Sam’s mouth fell open slightly. “Can I… have the hot dogs regardless?”

Charlene scrunched her face. “Absolutely not. Those hot dogs are reserved for boys who can’t jump very far but enjoy telling me the truth.”

Sam sharply exhaled out his nose. He wanted to talk to Charlene, to tell her about Dean and Cas and his life and… everything. She was so easy to talk to, so friendly. She was simultaneously lost and found, right and wrong, here and there. He had a feeling, however, that she’d think poorly of him if he didn’t jump as far as he could. He nodded solemnly, and walked to the edge of the building. He turned and ran full-bore to the edge of the curb and lept, but something wasn’t right. His coordination was impacted and he didn’t account for that. He came off the curb awkwardly and then skidded on some gravel, coming down hard on his ass about three feet from the sidewalk. “SONOFABITCH!” he shouted.

Charlene’s hand flew up to cover her mouth and she tried to suppress an “ohhhh nooooo”, and then she started cackling like a cartoon witch. She ran to Sam to help him up, snorting with laughter punctuated with comments of “oh god, are you okay?” and “how’s your pride doing there, buddy?”

“Hardeehar,” grumbled Sam, trying to suppress a smile and failing.

“You’re going to need an ice pack to soothe that sick burn, guy.”

“Yeah, no, I get it. You can jump really far.”

“No, you don’t get it. Tomorrow you’re going to have an ass bruise so bad people are gonna think you spent all night getting spanked with frozen Eggo waffles.”

Sam uncharacteristically spoke without thinking, “that’s pretty hot.”

Charlene smacked Sam on the ass, right where he had fallen, and he hissed. She turned, smiling impishly, and poked him on the nose. “Boop. I knew I liked you for a reason. Now, time for hot dogs!”

Sam turned toward the car and Charlene grabbed his arm to steer him away. “Nope, nope, no. Absolutely not. Castiel told me about that car and there is no way in hell I’m letting your drunk ass anywhere near it.”

“Hey, I’m not that drunk--”

“I think your ass disagrees, Sam.”

Sam shrugged. “So, I guess we’re walking?”

“Sam, my apartment is literally right behind this bar. How do you think Dave and I got so tight? He’s my mister from another sister.”

Charlene took Sam by the hand, her long, strong fingers gripping softly. She led him around the side of the bar and to the back stairwell of the building. She unlocked the door and then Sam gingerly followed her up the stairs. She then unlocked the door to her apartment, stepped in, and clicked on the light.

It was small, but not tiny.

Charlene gave a small tour consisting of, “bathroom, closet, living room, kitchen, and that's the bedroom,” then she dropped her voice to a whisper and spoke around the side of her hand, “but nothing ever happened in there.”

Sam smiled at the Ghostbusters reference and replied, “what a crime.”

“Full disclosure, Sammy, that was a test and I'd like you to know you've earned an A plus.”

It was an older building, complete with cast iron radiator and crown molding, and window frames that had been painted and repainted many times over. He glanced in the bathroom and saw an old claw foot tub. The kitchen was small and not really its own room, more just an extension of the living room. The living room furniture consisted of an old, teal, Chesterfield armchair, a Scandinavian futon, and one of those huge, two-seater papasan basket chairs from the 70’s, all pointing toward an impressively large TV hooked up to a computer tower. What really caught Sam's attention, however, were the walls. They were lined floor to ceiling with shelves crammed full with books of all kinds; fiction, nonfiction, poetry, memoirs, technical manuals, old books, new books, books without titles, and many notebooks and journals that he assumed Charlene had filled herself. Every so often, there would be a brick on the shelf, seemingly at random intervals. These weren't books for show, they all looked worn and well read. Sam suddenly found himself very turned on.

Charlene came up behind Sam and poked her head around. “Oooh, you like books, too!” she exclaimed happily. “You can just, uh, browse while I bring home the bacon over here.”

Sam could hear the refrigerator door open and close, and then Charlene’s voice calling, “Think fast!” Sam did not think fast, and therefore was hit in the back with a bag of frozen brussel sprouts.

“For your pride,” she said from the kitchen, back turned.

Sam shrugged and picked up the bag, gingerly pressing it to his sore rear with his right hand as he perused the books with his left. They were in no particular order that Sam could discern. Straight across one row he saw _Moby Dick_ , _The Awakening_ , _Vurt_ , _A Confederacy of Dunces_ , a book on Adobe Photoshop, _Love in the Time of Cholera_ , _Lies My Teacher Told Me_ , _Teaching to Transgress_ , all three _Lord of the Rings_ books, _The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel_ , a book about Rasputin, _Catch 22_ , and a series of comic trades called _Preacher_ . Every shelf was more of the same. His eyes traveled down to the armchair and there on the seat he saw it. The same book he was reading. _The Devil in the White City_ by Erik Larson.

“Wait, you like Erik Larson?” said Sam, genuinely excited that someone, somewhere might also share an interest in the Chicago World’s Fair.

“Oh, yes!” Charlene called back. She was cooking something on the stove, something… oniony. “I fucking LOVE his book about the sinking of the Lusitania! I just read it and then, well, it became this whole thing. Had to go read it all, y’know?”

Sam did know.

The kitchen noises stopped, and suddenly Charlene was there, right next to him.

“So, uh…” Sam felt clumsy, nervous, unsure of himself. “How are these organized, anyhow?”

Charlene smiled. “Chronologically. This far end,“ she said pointing left, “is where I started and alllll along here,“ she pointed along the rest of the walls, ”is my journey.”

Sam cocked his head, mouth open slightly. “So, like… these are all the books you’ve ever read in the order that you’ve read them?”

“Yup. Well, I mean… since 1996. I didn’t start keeping track until then.”

“‘96?!” Sam exclaimed. “How old were you in ‘96?”

“I was nine,” she said with a bashful smile. It was the first time Sam had seen Charlene display anything but overt confidence.

Sam stumbled over Charlene to where the shelves began. There was a series of about 50 books that ended with a brick. Then another series of books and another brick.

“Charlene, are these bricks date markers?”

“Yup,” she said quietly.

Year 1996 contained, among other things, _Alice in Wonderland_ , _Through the Looking Glass_ , _The Odyssey_ , _The Illiad_ , a complete volume of Shakespearian comedies, _Jurassic Park_ , _Pride and Prejudice_ , _Snow Crash_ , the first _Game of Thrones_ book, a manual on ecoterrorism, and _Dracula_.

“You think I’m a weirdo, don’t you?” Charlene said with a sad, half smile.

Sam’s eyes widened as he grinned. “Are you kidding? I mean, yes I do, but… but in the very best way. This is astounding!”

Charlene put her hand on the bag of brussel sprouts Sam was still holding to his rear end and pushed gently. “I bet you have an astounding collection yourself, Sammy,” she said, then pressed her lips together. “Okay, hot dogs!”

She guided Sam to the futon, having no real kitchen table to eat at. He very carefully sat down, trying to position the brussel sprouts in the least offensive way possible. Charlene went to the kitchen and returned with two plates, each containing two hot dogs prepared in a way Sam had not seen before, and two cans of root beer, one under each arm.

“Okay, so the key to a perfect Seattle Dog--”

“What’s a Seattle Dog?” Sam looked confused.

“A Seattle Dog, my dear boy, is a regional delicacy of my people. When you buy them off a cart, they are usually steamed, but I prefer using the toaster oven. You need a shitty bun, not one of those hoity toity kaiser rolls. You put the cream cheese on first--”

“Wait, cream cheese?”

Charlene put her finger up to Sam’s mouth with a “shhh.” Her touch felt hot, electric against his lips, and he felt a flush creep across his cheeks.

“As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted,” she said with a wink, “you put the cream cheese on, THEN the hot dog, and top it off with the grilled onions. Some people add brown mustard, but I personally feel that degrades the hot dog’s purity of essence.”

Sam looked down at the plate in his lap, and then up to Charlene’s sparkling eyes. Before, he had been impressed by her ease of manner, and the way she didn’t seem to feel obligated to impress anyone at all. Now, though, Sam could tell that she was trying to impress him, please him. Make him happy. He felt very, very flattered. But instead of expressing that thought, he put his foot into his mouth. The Winchester Way.

“Ah, I see now. You’re trying to ply me with hot dog wiles so I’ll spill the beans about Dean and Castiel.”

Charlene looked genuinely dejected, and Sam immediately realized his error.

“Sam,” she said firmly. “I don’t ply just anyone with my hot dog wiles. I could have gotten you to tell me anything I wanted hours ago. I just thought that maybe, if I dragged it out…” She looked down at her plate.

“We could eat hot dogs?”

She looked up with a smile. “Exactly.” Suddenly, her eyes went wide. “Oh, Jesus, I almost forgot! Here!” she said, shoving her plate at Sam as she stood up. She ran over to the junction between the kitchen and living room where a small record player stood atop a couple of milk crates containing vinyl LPs. She quickly flipped through them and Sam could see an eclectic mix of albums ranging from the 50’s through present day. She slid one of the records from the sleeve, laid it on the table, and set the needle.

Sam started laughing hard enough that he had trouble balancing all of the hot dogs, nearly letting one roll off the plate onto the floor. Charlene had put on _Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me_ by The Cure.

“You like?” She asked, gesturing to the record player.

“Oh, it’s perfect,” Sam smiled.

She sauntered back over to the futon and plopped down, causing Sam to wince. She snatched her plate away and grabbed one of the hot dogs, holding it into the air. Sam did the same.

“Boop,” she said, poking her hot dog into Sam’s, and then she took a big bite. Sam followed suit.

“Woah, woah,” he said, mouth full of food. His eyes were wide as he looked around incredulously. “Thith is wuhwee gub!”

She swallowed. “I told you!” she said, looking genuinely pleased.

Sam quickly took another bite, a lot hungrier than he thought he was. _Damn, this is a good hot dog_. He ate quickly without talking, occasionally making happy groaning noises. After finishing one of the dogs, Charlene put down her plate and cracked open one of the cans of root beer. She leaned back and drank deeply, watching Sam enjoy his food with smug satisfaction. Sam finished and put the plate down, and he could feel Charlene’s gaze heavy upon him. He liked the way she was looking at him, like she was still hungry and he was a tasty snack. He leaned over and slowly grabbed his soda from the coffee table, popped the tab, and took a swig.

“Uh, thanks for the hot dog,” he said with a smile. He reflexively bit his lower lip as he looked away from her intense gaze.

Charlene reached over and took Sam’s root beer, placed it on the table next to her own, and in the same graceful movement somehow she was on Sam, atop Sam, hands running up through his long chestnut hair. She kissed him passionately, not seeming to mind the onions and soda and the lingering tastes of beer and rum.

 _And she used to fall down a lot,_  
_That girl was always falling,_  
_Again and again,_  
_And I used to sometimes try to catch her,_ _  
But I never even caught her name._

Sam sat rigidly, unsure of what to do. He wanted this, but not like this, not without holding up his end of the deal. Despite his reticence, he found his hands travelling up her back, under her t-shirt. She felt sinewy, wide-hipped, and unbreakable. He leaned up and into her kiss, bracing her upright from behind. _This feels good, no, it feels fucking great. It feels safe. It feels normal--_

Sam pulled his mouth away suddenly, leaving Charlene gasping. “Charlene, I’m sorry--”

Charlene went rigid. “Goddammit, I’m sorry Sammy.” She tried to carefully slide off Sam’s lap. “I know I can come on kinda strong and I--”

Sam reached out and caught Charlene by the side of the face, forcing her to look at him. “Hey, no, you were fine! That was great! I just…” Sam trailed off. “I just want to honor my bargain, to tell you about Cas and Dean and… well… me.”

Charlene tilted her head into Sam’s hand and looked at him with a sad smile.

Sam continued, “I worry that once you get to know me better, you might change your mind about...” he gestured from his head down to his lap and back again, “this.”

Charlene took Sam’s hand, the one holding her head, held it tightly and she moved back to her spot on the futon. She tilted her head down and looked up at him through her long, dark lashes, a wicked smile on her face. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman?”

He didn’t know how to start the conversation; every opening line he thought of seemed either trite or overly dramatic. He finally settled on, “Dean and I are hunters.”

Charlene wrinkled her nose in distaste and immediately felt bad about it. “Like, birds? Big game?”

“Uh, no. I mean… we hunt monsters.”

Charlene paused, eyes narrowed, and Sam could feel panic rising in his chest. “Monsters?” she asked, as if she might have heard him wrong.

“Uh, yeah. Like, vampires, ghosts, lycanthropes--”

“Werewolves?” she said, with a raised eyebrow.

Sam pressed his lips together into a thin line and furrowed his brow. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. He knew he sounded like a lunatic. If he wasn’t drunk, if he’d used better judgement… he was just so fucking lonely, and she was so fucking nice.

She pulled her long legs up to sit cross legged on the futon, facing Sam. She placed her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “Okay, Sammy,” she started, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Part of the reason is that rum is a happy drink, and the other is that you taste remarkably good even after eating onions. But you have to answer every single one of my questions without hesitation so that I might discern whether or not you are indeed fucking with me.”

Sam nodded solemnly.

“So lemme get this straight. You and your brother travel around the country hunting monsters?”

“And saving people,” Sam mumbled.

“And I’m guessing this is dangerous work?”

“Yeah, I mean… I’ve died a few times.”

“YOU’VE DIED?!” exclaimed Charlene.

“Yeah, but Dean’s died way more. I mean, that’s how he met Cas.”

“Is that so? What is up with Castiel, anyhow? Is he a,” she made air quotes, “‘hunter’? Like you?”

“Well, sometimes… I mean, he helps.”

“How does he help?”

“He’s… uh… an… angel.”

Charlene slapped her knee and cried out, “I KNEW IT!”

Sam did a double take. “Wait, you KNEW it? How could you know THAT?”

“Well, I had a feeling. He’s, he’s not quite human, y’know? And the way he talked about Dean, like he was his guardian or something. I mean, he didn’t even know who John Cusack was! That’s just weird.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “So, the weird part of this story is that someone didn’t know who John Cusack was?”

“Dude, everyone knows who John Cusack is.”

“Touche.” Sam rolled his shoulders back and ran his hand through his hair. “You seem to be taking all of this in stride.”

Charlene flashed a smile. “The rum helps. So, when you die, how do you not… stay dead?”

Sam swallowed, mind reeling. _How is she just… cool with all this?_

“Uh, sometimes we’re resurrected by angels, or demons, or… I mean… does it matter?”

“Um, YEAH!” she replied emphatically. “Castiel told me he saved Dean from Hell, and in the moment I thought he was being metaphorical, but then after he dropped me off tonight it hit me: this guy doesn’t do metaphors.”

“You are spot on there.”

Sam and Charlene sat quietly for a moment. Sam started. “So, you really aren’t freaked out right now?”

Charlene took Sam’s hand again, and looked him the eye. “Sam, I’m absolutely petrified and also 100% convinced that what I told Castiel earlier today was the truth. Today has been the most interesting day of my life. All the shit in my books are real?! Are you kidding me?! There are hot, nomadic dudes that drive around the country secretly killing monsters? I just helped a freakin’ ANGEL hook up with the guy he rescued from Hell?”

“Well, we aren’t nomadic anymore.”

Charlene flashed questioning eyes.

“We kind of have a base, now.”

“In KANSAS?”

“Yeah. It’s… a magical bunker.”

Charlene started to giggle, and then suddenly she was wracked with uncontrollable laughter. “You have,” she said breathlessly in between laughs, “a magical bunker in Kansas?” She snorted and wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “You have to take me there,” she gasped, smiling broadly.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“You want me to trust you or not, pal? I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, now you get to reciprocate.”

Sam knew Castiel trusted Charlene. He knew that there was something about her, aside from the rum, that was intoxicating. Her intellectual flexibility was striking. She looked at him like a whole person, not the broken wreck he knew he was inside. He’d made so many bad calls, hurt so many people.

Charlene snapped her fingers in front to Sam’s face, waking him from his mind’s wanderings. “Sammy, thank you for telling me.” She patted Sam on the knee. “We’ll need some time to sober up before we hit the road.” With that, she stood up and walked to the record player that had long since stopped playing. She flipped the record and reset the needle.

 _You're so gorgeous I'll do anything,_  
_I'll kiss you from your feet to where your head begins,_  
_You're so perfect you're so right as rain,_  
_You make me,_  
_Make me, make me, make me hungry again._  
_Everything you do is irresistible,_  
_Everything you do is simply kissable,_ _  
Why can't I be you?_


	35. The No-Touching Zone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with added wing kink!

Dean climbed on top of Castiel, straddling him. He had stripped Castiel’s boxers away and now they were pressed up against one another, skin on skin. Castiel could feel Dean’s longing for him, his heat burning into his lower back. He could feel Dean taking deep, labored breaths, his shaky hands gripping the angel’s sides, unsure of the next move.

Just then, Dean heard Castiel speak in Enochian again, this time moaning the words, almost begging Dean. _You may._

His mind struggled to make sense of what he saw. His strong, lean, beautiful friend lay prone before him, breath coming quick and shallow. His skin glowed softly in time with Dean’s unconscious pelvic movements. His wings, _oh God his wings_ , were laid out before him, pulsing and swirling like the Northern Lights as viewed from some lonely iceberg far out on a frozen sea. 

Dean shook his head and shuddered, and then slowly, so slowly, began to run his hands up the center of Castiel’s back toward where the wings met his shoulders. He spotted the small, black feathers he has so delicately grazed before to such great effect and decided to start there. The closer he got, the more Castiel’s wings quivered. He massaged the skin and muscles around the junction, almost but not quite coming in contact with the feathers. He could feel his angel’s hips grinding down onto the mattress, bucking him forward, and then suddenly he was there, strong fingers sliding through the silky feathers, static racing up his arms and making his arm hair stand on end. Instant goosebumps.

“Ohhh,” moaned Castiel into the pillow, and Dean could feel the muscles of his wings contract under his touch. Castiel’s low tones reverberated through Dean’s body, coalescing in his groin, filling him with a deep yearning for something. _For what?_ This was all so completely new, so utterly baffling, so wonderfully terrifying.

Dean continued, smoothing his hands over the short feathers along the tops of Castiel’s wings, skin prickling with a million tiny shocks of pleasure. The stimulation was almost too much for Dean. He had to keep taking his hands away to catch his breath. Each time, Castiel moaned at the lack of his touch, causing more heat and desire to build in Dean’s pelvis.

Dean took a deep breath and plunged his fingers deep into the longer, denser feathers of the mid-wing. He raked his fingers through them and as he did he saw the rainbow colors swirl and pulse, and Castiel’s glow became brighter, brighter, almost blinding. Castiel bucked his hips wildly and shouted something into his pillow Dean couldn’t understand, but somehow did. More Enochian. His voice sounded through every brick and board, even vibrating the air in Dean’s lungs and reaching up to the stars in the sky. One word, one intent. _LOVE_.

Castiel never thought anything could feel like this. His whole body vibrated and pulsed under Dean’s careful touch. He wept into the pillow, uncontrollably. He felt emotions he couldn’t name, that didn’t have names. Gratitude mixed with lust. Consequence mixed with providence. Loving and self loathing, war and peace, hunger and utter satisfaction. He was anxious, felt on the brink of something terrible and wonderful. He felt on the verge of completely disintegrating, blowing apart. His breath hitched in his throat.

Dean felt emboldened, knowing he was doing well. Pleasure rolled in like the storm, crackling static now arching into him like purple lightning. He was hit with the realization that this, this encounter, this was making love. He was making love to his angel, his gorgeous wings would be Dean’s undoing.

He felt the burning in his loins reaching an unbearable crescendo and fell forward onto Castiel, his chest pressing to his angel’s back. He dug his face into the space between where the wings met and began passionately kissing and biting, while simultaneously running his fingers through the long, strong, broad feathers of Castiel’s lower wings. The effect was near instantaneous. Castiel began to glow like the sun, and his wings began to flash and crackle, blinking in and out of their material plane. Dean could feel Castiel contort underneath him and he could hear him hiss, then bellow one word, “NOOOO!”

With a flash, Dean suddenly found himself standing in the corner of the room, dazed and confused, filled to the brim with lust. Before him stood Castiel, but something was different. He was glowing soft white, but not like before. He looked as if his body was not emitting a glow, but was a glow, features softened, small, wispy curls of light trailing off as he moved. He was nude and wingless, but then Dean looked down and realized he was as well, and seemingly composed of the same wispy whiteness as Castiel.

He took a step forward to wrap Castiel up in his arms, but to his horror he put his arm right through his friend’s shoulder like he wasn’t there at all.

“C-cas?” Dean stammered, completely discombobulated, “what is happening?”

Castiel frowned with his sad, blue eyes, stepped aside, and gestured to the bed.

Dean blinked several times. It took a few moments to understand what he was seeing. He had to squint because the light was so bright, but once his eyes had adjusted, he saw them. There on the bed was Castiel, face down, writhing in exquisite pleasure, with Dean pressed against him, two fistfuls of feathers and a face full of hunger, purple lighting discharging off in every direction. Frozen in time.

“Sonofabitch,” was all Dean could muster.

Castiel moved to stand next to him. “Indeed.”

“Cas, I don’t understand,” started Dean. “What the hell are we looking at?”

Castiel replied with his flat, gravelly voice, “We are looking at us.”

“Then… what are we?” Asked Dean, gesturing to the two of them talking.

“We are also us.”  
Dean let his head drop back in frustration. “C’mon, Cas! You gotta give me more than that!”

“Dean, I have transported our conscious minds to the Astral Plane.”  
“You did what to the what?”

“I am sorry for not warning you, there was not time.”

Dean turned towards Castiel, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose in aggravation. “Okay, but WHY? I mean, I was kinda enjoying that, weren’t you?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t we, uh, get back to work?”

“Dean, that would be unwise.”

“C’mon, Cas! I’m getting blue balls over here!”

Castiel looked Dean up and down and then said flatly, with a slight head tilt and the shyest hint of a smile, “they appear normal to me.”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose and took on the aspect of a small child who was just told that no, there wasn’t going to be any ice cream after dinner.

“Dean, I am sorry, but I was afraid. Of losing control.”

“Isn’t that the whole point, Cas?”  
“You misunderstand me. I could feel my corporeal form and incorporeal form blinking in and out of this plane. I was losing control over how much you could see or not see. I was about to…” he trailed off.

“Explode?” Dean finished his sentence.

“Precisely. I was afraid I was going to hurt you, blind you, kill you. I have never done this before, you see, and I do not know the correct protocol. This was the only thing I could think of to do.”

“Can you put us back?” asked Dean, trying to hide the edge of panic creeping into his voice.

“Yes, but I do not know what will happen next.”

“Well, now that we’ve talked about it, can’t we just… calm down?”

“Dean, this whole conversation is just a mere thought, less than a thought, going through our heads right now. I do not know if we will be able to stay calm and problem-solve when we go back in.”

“I dunno, man, we can’t just stay here in the No-Touching Zone forever.”

Castiel frowned, then walked over to the two men in the bed. He leaned down and pointed directly at the blissed out face of frozen Castiel and growled, “does this look like the face of a man capable of making sound life choices?”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, then replied, “well, you got us here. I think you could get us out. I believe in you, Cas.”

Castiel spoke softly, voice tinged with self doubt, “You have to remember to close your eyes, Dean. And cover your ears.”

“Cas, I don’t believe you’d ever hurt me.”

Castiel pressed his lips together and sighed. He reached up to touch Dean’s face but stopped short, remembering their incorporeality. “I do not know what will happen.”

Dean took a step toward his angel to meet his hand and just imagining his touch helped to soothe him. “I trust you.”

Castiel nodded, and then suddenly Dean was slammed back into the bed atop a writhing Castiel, surrounded by lightning and static and a blinding whiteness that swallowed the room. Pleasure throbbed throughout his body, overcoming him, overwhelming him, and then suddenly he remembered. He remembered his conversation with Castiel, about his fears of hurting Dean. Dean knew what to do. He squeezed his eyes closed and shouted over the roaring light and Castiel’s angelic moaning. He shouted in Enochian, one word he’d known innately from before. _LOVE_.

An explosion rocked the room, and suddenly Dean was sealed in a frozen whiteness. He could feel… nothing. But also everything. It was as if all of his senses had combined to form one new sense far greater than the sum of its parts. Castiel was there with him, he could tell, but he could also feel the brick walls, the dusty floor, the air outside, and the coursing of blood in the hearts of everyone he’d ever met, ever would meet. He could feel the passing of time, the breaking of waves. He could hear silence like it was sound. He suddenly knew all the names for all the colors that made up Cas’ wings.

And then just as suddenly, it was gone. Reality came crashing back down around him. He lay atop Castiel on his bed in his room, awash with endorphins, gasping and slick with sweat. Castiel panted underneath him, unruly hair matted with exertion, grateful smile on his face. His wings were gone, but he was glorious to behold all the same. Dean carefully rolled off of his angel and pressed himself up next to him, wrapping his arm tightly around Castiel’s chest. He gently brushed his fingertips over the muscles of his abdomen, causing Castiel to shiver. Castiel turned his head back toward Dean and then shakily pointed to the ceiling with a wicked grin. Dean looked up and saw what Castiel had been smiling at. There on the ceiling was a large, black burn, the silhouette of the torsos of two men, two huge wings spreading out from either side.


	36. Want Something Normal

Charlene and Sam continued to talk into the wee hours of the morning. Sam regaled her with tales of the many times he and Dean had saved the world, the Big Bads they’d faced, the people they’d left dead and bloodied along the way. Charlene sat at rapt attention, one fist pressed up against her mouth, another squeezing Sam’s hand at particularly traumatizing events, including the losses of his mother, Jess, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, Adam, Kevin, and Charlie.

Sam had never been asked to tell the whole story, and he struggled with the chronology. He didn’t know what was important, and what was trivial. He just kept talking and talking, and couldn’t seem to stop. Didn’t want to stop. He knew he was being reckless, but this conversation was the first time he’d ever been able to be completely open.  Near the end, he started talking about his father, and his life on the road. He spent what felt like an hour just… complaining, really. That this life wasn’t his choice, that it was foisted upon him. He had never wanted it, but now that it was his, he didn’t think he’d want it any other way.

He smiled. “Saving people.”

“Hunting things,” she replied.

In unison, “the family business.”

Up until that point, Charlene had said very little. She welcomed the info dump. She was convinced now that Sam was being straight with her, but was also now very, very sure that this boy was defective merchandise. There was no way someone could live that life and come out unscathed.

In a way, it was a relief. When he interrupted her game of Galaga, all she saw was a gangly guy with great arms and puppy dog eyes, adorably awkward but painfully… normal. Her dad moved her away as a kid to give her some semblance of normal. She went to a normal university, made normal friends, dated normal people. She got a normal job doing normal things, and throughout it all she was constantly filled with a deep dissatisfaction. She’d read to escape, listened to music, wrote, tried to consume and create and trick herself into thinking there was magic in the world; she just needed to look harder to find it.

“You know, I didn’t have to come to Kansas,” she said, finally. She looked Sam in the eye with intensity. My mom, well, she’s a goner no matter what.”

“But you love her, right?” Sam said, trying to be comforting. “She’s family.”

“Not really. I mean, she was sick. She was a terrible mother, a danger to be around. That’s why my dad took me away, why I never visited. She’d sometimes send me letters, but a lot of time they wouldn’t make any sense at all. She’d refer to things we’d supposedly done together that never happened, to people that never existed. She’d say she missed me and would apologize for not being a better mother, but every once in awhile she wrote and was angry with me for leaving, telling me I was a terrible daughter.”

Sam eyed her with a sad, questioning look. “Then why did you come back?”

Charlene exhaled through her nose.  She let go of Sam’s hand and stood, then walked over to one of the shelves and pulled out a book, clearly well-worn, flagged with bookmarks. She opened it up and began to read aloud.

“I told myself, 'All I want is a normal life'. But was that true? I wasn't so sure. Because there was a part of me that enjoyed hating school, and the drama of not going, the potential consequences whatever they were. I was intrigued by the unknown. I was even slightly thrilled that my mother was such a mess. Had I become addicted to crisis? I traced my finger along the windowsill. 'Want something normal, want something normal, want something normal', I told myself.”

She let her hand holding the book drop to her side and rested her other hand on the small of her back. She looked toward the ceiling, and then said, seemingly to no one, “I am a very dull person.”

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say.

“I mean it, Sam,” she said, still looking up. “I wanted my life to have meaning, drama. I wanted an arc, a hero’s journey. I wanted to be more than...” she gestured with her book hand from her head to her feet and back again, “...this. So I came back. I came back to feel something, even if it meant feeling bad.” She took the book in both hands and shook it, looking at Sam, “bad is better than nothing!”

Sam stood and walked around the futon and up to Charlene, and gently took the book from her hands. He bit his lower lip softly and said, “if it helps, I want you to know that I don’t think you’re normal at all.”

She reached out to snatch the book back but Sam held it behind him. “Yeah?” she said, trying to side step to compensate for Sam’s long arms. “Well, I’m not angel, I am not a demon, shit, I’m not even a goddamned werewolf.” She poked Sam in the stomach with her index finger, and he reflexively brought his hands around to protect himself. Charlene took the opportunity to snatch the book back and held it close to her chest. “I am a romantic with delusions of having a life with meaning,” she said, almost angrily. “I started to give up, thinking that it just wasn’t how life worked, and then you showed up.” She took a step back, opened the book again to a new page and read.

“I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.”

Sam blinked twice and then practically dove into Charlene, locking her a tight embrace as he kissed her. The book clattered to the floor at their feet, though neither of them seemed to notice. Their mouths moved hungrily, desperately, as if by kissing one another in this way they could somehow find the answer to an impossible question. They were triaging one another’s pain and insecurity, a delicate darting of the tongues to soothe wounded souls, and a tug of the lower lip to remind one another to breathe. _This was not normal. This was exceptional._

Sam began to guide the two of them to the hall and back toward Charlene’s bedroom. He started to desperately take his shirt off, breaking his kiss only long enough to tug it over his head and let it drop to the ground. Charlene’s little brain earrings swung back and forth furiously as she reciprocated Sam’s intensity, her hands firmly rooted in Sam’s glossy chestnut hair. Sam eventually guided her into the dark bedroom and flailed around for a light switch. After a few seconds, he was successful. Sam froze stiff the second the room lit up. He slowly pulled his face from Charlene’s leaving her gasping.

Books. The room was filled with hundreds and hundreds of books. There were floor to ceiling shelves crammed with books. The open closet doors revealed more shelves with more books. Books were stacked from the floor waist-high. He stepped back, startled, and knocked over a whole tower, which startled him again causing him to practically jump into Charlene’s arms.

“But, what... “ Sam was struggling to take it all in. “Where… where is your bed?”

Charlene smiled. “I sleep on the futon,” she said with a mischievous grin. “I told you nothing ever happened in here.”

“But I thought, out there… that was your ‘journey’?”

“My journey started in 1996, when I moved to Seattle. I’m still on it, you’re a part of it now, too. I’d say this room represents 2007 onward. That stack you just knocked over? That’s from the last six months, since I’ve moved back.” She knelt down and started restacking the books, and Sam knelt down to join her. He picked up books and handed them to her as she needed them, and he made sure to note the titles. _House of Leaves, The Poisonwood Bible, The Stranger, The Complete Works of Kierkegaard, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, Gravity’s Rainbow, The Rum Diary,_ on and on and on. When she was done they stood together, Sam looking vulnerable in nothing but his jeans, Charlene smug though somewhat distant.

Sam took a step toward her, placing a gentle hand on the carefully stacked tomes and another on Charlene’s shoulder. “Charlene,” he said softly, “this is definitely not normal.”

She wrinkled her nose and smiled.

Sam smiled right back. “It is also the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”


	37. Still Here

Dean and Castiel luxuriated in the bed for a while. Neither of them knew how long, and neither of them cared. Dean was on his side with Castiel aligned behind him, caressing Dean’s arm and side delicately with the tips of his fingers. Castiel memorized every freckle, every hair. He outlined and re-outlined the boundaries of every scar with his eyes, committing to memory the contours of his human’s hips, the flecks of blonde in his hair.  Dean laid there, letting the sensations lull him into peaceful sedation. He matched his angel breath for breath as the sweat of their exertions slowly evaporated into the air. Finally, Dean spoke.

“Thanks for not killing me,” he whispered.

“Do not joke about that,” was Castiel’s gravelly reply. He nuzzled the back of Dean’s neck with his nose. “I could not bear to be at fault in the case of your death.”

“Ah, Cas, even if I died, I know you’d come find me.”

“Indeed. I would never stop looking, but the guilt would be there all the same. You know that guilt that better than anyone.”

Dean didn’t reply, and Castiel’s breath caught as he realized that something was wrong. Slowly, Dean dropped his legs off the bed and sat up. 

Castiel propped himself up on one arm and reached out to Dean with the other. “Dean,” he said with a mixture of panic and regret, “that is to say, you know loss. You know--”

“Save it, Cas,” mumbled Dean, almost under his breath. He stood and walked over to the wardrobe in the corner and started yanking out clothes and throwing them on hurriedly. Boxers. Socks. Jeans. T-shirt. Flannel shirt. 

“Dean!” called Castiel from the bed. “You are a good man!” He stood and made a motion to walk toward Dean, who suddenly turned as he threw his jacket on. He held up a single hand as he shrugged the jacket into place, and Castiel froze where he stood, brows furrowed and head tilted slightly to the side. 

Dean pressed his lips into a flat line and gave a small nod. Castiel was obviously sorry, Dean knew that. It didn’t change the fact that being reminded of all the people he’d hurt and killed constituted the least sexy pillow talk of all time. “Angel,” he spat, “why do you always say everything you friggin’ think? Would it kill ya to keep it to yourself?” He exhaled sharply through his nose and continued, “I just need some air, okay?” With that, he turned and walked through the door.

Castiel was wracked with panic. He loved Dean desperately; he couldn’t bear the thought that he had made him feel worse, not better. He had not thought past his grand gesture, past the passion they’d shared. Dean was his now, but Dean was also still Dean. Moody, gruff, and still maddeningly bad at talking. He knew that what he said was not… appropriate for the context. But he also knew it was true. Dean wanted him to censor himself in some way, but Castiel did not understand the conditions. He could not just let Dean leave in this state.  He had to say something.

Dean closed the door and stopped in the hall. He leaned forward and softly rested his forehead on the door and closed his eyes.  _ Why do you have to be like that? _ he questioned himself.  _ Someone reaches out, you push them away. He's not human, you can't treat him like he is. He's more than that, better than that. You’ve pushed him away so many times, and he’s still here. Still here. _ Dean sighed softly to himself, opened his eyes, and turned to go find the keys to his Baby.

_ Cas _ .

Cas stood in front of him, fully dressed in rumpled suit and overcoat, sad-eyed with actual sex hair. “Dean,” he growled, “you mistake me.”

Dean was gobsmacked. He’d said he’d needed some air.  _ What part of that meant “corner me in a hallway”? _

“Cas!” he said with exasperation. “I didn’t mistake you, alright? I know you didn’t mean any harm! You just… I just…” He trailed off.  _ Words, asshole. Use your friggin’ words.  _

Castiel didn’t give him a chance. “I have made the inference that the juxtaposition of our intimacy with your regrets has left you feeling… confused, and for my part in that I apologize.” He cleared his throat. “I want to be the one you can be open and honest with, but your emotions are valid. I do not mean to hamper your…” he gestured along the hall with one hand, “process. I will leave you be if you wish, but you need to know two things. I will always be here if you need me, and I will always tell you the truth, even if it is painful. ” With that, he reached down and took Dean’s hand, gave it a squeeze, and let go.

_ Still here. Still here. _

He continued, “also, it has come to my attention that Sam has the Impala, so you may need to go for a walk instead of a drive.”

Dean blinked several times and then muttered a terse, “Sonofabitch.” 

Dean gave a Castiel a look that he could not quantify, then strode off down the hall and into the bathroom. Castiel felt impotent, not understanding what Dean’s eyes meant. He kept a watchful eye on Dean, but his mind wandered.  _ Was it frustration? Sadness? Self-pity? Disappointment? _ From the hall, Castiel could hear Dean mumble to himself, “asshole took my keys!” and Castiel watched him come out of the bathroom, wallet in hand. 

Dean scowled and checked to see if the contents of the wallet still remained, shoved it in his pocket, and then looked up at Castiel who still waited patiently at the bedroom door, softly biting his lower lip, eyes thoughtful.  _ He looks like he’d wait there forever if I asked him to,  _ he thought with regret. _ Dammit Dean.  _ He placed the flat of his hand on the wall and stared straight at Castiel. 

Castiel watched Dean deeply inhale through his nose and walk toward him with purpose.  _ He is still upset, _ thought Castiel in a panic. _ I do not know what else to say, I do not want to make it worse. I-- _

Dean slammed a stunned Castiel up against his bedroom door, wrapping his hand around his tie, and kissed him deeply. He knew the problem; he was too caught up in his goddamned head. He needed the hot touch of Castiel’s lips to remind him who he was now, in this moment. The past was gone, the future unknown. Castiel was the now. The now was all that mattered.

Castiel’s eyelids fluttered, blinking out his thoughts.  _ He is not mad, but sad. He is grateful. I am grateful. _ With that, he leaned into Dean and hummed, smiling into his human’s kiss. Dean gently pulled away but stayed nose to nose with Castiel. 

“I’m sorry Cas,” he murmured. “It's a good thing you're honest with me. Me being sensitive, that's not your fault. You make me feel vulnerable, but that's not the same thing as weak.” He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Castiel’s. “I’m not really a words guy.”

Castiel smiled and purred, “That is strange, your mouth seems to be in perfect working order.”

Dean leaned in with his eyes closed to deliver one more slow, small, grateful kiss. Suddenly, his eyes flew open. “Pie!” he exclaimed excitedly, slapping his hand on the door. 

Castiel smiled broadly as Dean turned and hustled down the hallway. 


	38. The Realities of Magic

“I'm glad you aren't a normie, Sam,” said Charlene, sounding genuinely grateful. She turned and walked out of the room, returning with Sam's shirt. She tossed it to him, saying, “It's 5am, let's get this date on the road!”

“Is this a date?” Sam smirked, tugging his shirt over his head.

“Sam, ” she replied flatly, “we played Galaga, drank rum, ate hot dogs, and listened to the fucking Cure.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

Charlene locked the door and then excitedly ran down the flight of stairs as she pulled on her sweatshirt. Sam slowly followed, gingerly taking each stair to avoid worsening his injury. Charlene met him outside, hands deep in her sweatshirt pockets, bright eyes muted by the early dawn light. Despite her best efforts to subdue her excitement, Sam could see she was bouncing in place, ever so slightly.

“I get to ride in the car again!” she exclaimed suddenly while pumping her fist into the air, no longer able to contain herself.

“Believe me, it gets old after awhile,” Sam countered with a smile.

She lowered his fist and pointed directly at Sam. “Don’t ruin this for me, Sammy.”

Sam put his hands up in deference and winced.

Charlene bounded over to him and narrowed her eyes. “You really fucked yourself up, didn’t you? Why did you even try that jump?”

Sam shrugged. “I wanted a hot dog?”

“Oh, come on. You really thought I would’ve withheld your hot dog?”

Sam sighed inaudibly. “I didn’t want to disappoint you. To have you think less of me.”

“Next time I ask you to do something stupid, Sammy, don’t do it just because I want you to,” she said with an air of authority betrayed by a goofy smile. “Do it because YOU want to do the stupid thing, you know, for your own... edification.” She slowly, carefully brought her hand down to touch Sam’s backside and he jerked away reflexively. She froze in place, hand inches away, and looked up at Sam with concern.

“Eh,” he grimaced, “it’s fine. I’ve had worse. Way worse, actually.”

Charlene ever so slowly, lightly poked Sam’s butt, never breaking eye contact. Sam hissed in pain.

“Uh, I think you should let me take a look at that,” she said with genuine concern.

“Nah, it’s not that bad, really. It just hurts worse now that I’m not drunk anymore.”

Her raised eyebrow said more than words could.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded. “I’ll let you take a look when we get back to--”

“THE MAGICAL BUNKER!” she exclaimed slowly, waving her hands broadly overhead like the spreading of a rainbow.

Sam chuckled. “I think you are getting your hopes too high. The realities of magic are less exciting than the idea of it.”

“Need me to get some frozen carrots for the road?” she offered, thumbing back toward the building.

“Dean would be pissed if I leaked carrot water all over his ‘Baby’,” Sam cautioned with a smile. “C’mon, let’s go! I’ll show you the trunk.”

“Wait, what’s in the trunk?” Charlene asked, wide-eyed.

They walked back over to the bar and there was the Impala, parked right where Sam had left it. He walked around to the back and Charlene followed, wiggling like an excited toddler. Sam leaned down to pop the trunk, and then stopped.

“What? What’s up, Sam?” Charlene asked impatiently.

“It’s just…” he trailed off. This part, this wasn’t magical, he realized. This part was scary. The trunk was filled with weapons, with instruments of torture and death. _This is the point in the story where the heroine comes to her senses and realizes she’s about the get into the car with a maniac,_ he thought to himself. _But I told her I’d show her everything._ He cleared his throat and raised the lid.

Charlene stood there in silence, silence that scared Sam more than any werewolf ever could. The predawn was quiet, and Sam could hear her draw measured breaths in and out, in and out. There in the trunk were carefully organized knives, machetes, shotguns, handguns, material spell components, and lots and lots of salt and kerosene.

Finally, she slowly turned her head toward Sam, eyes narrowed, light gone. His heart fell straight down, through the ground, deep into the earth. She blinked once, twice, then reached over and clasped Sam’s hand tightly in her own.

“I know not all stories are happy, Sam,” she said softly, face slackening. “I expected this,” she said, gesturing to the contents of the trunk. “I didn’t expect…” she trailed off, searching for words. Then she squeezed Sam’s hand again and maintained it. “I didn’t expect to feel this sad. Sad for you.”

Sam felt overcome with shame. His jaw clenched and eyes moistened as he struggled to appear strong.

“There is still wonder in this, the ‘realities of magic’ as you say. This,” she gestured to the contents of the trunk again, “humanizes you. You’re just a man doing a job with the tools at your disposal. A job that you hate and love, that has taken things from you that you will never get back. Your story might be a tragedy, Sammy, and… and I think that’s lovely.” She looked away from Sam and back to the trunk, not softening her grip on Sam’s hand even slightly.

They stood like that for a while, but Sam didn’t know what to say, so he just leaned in and kissed her on the ear, soft and sad. She shivered, and released his hand in favor of sidling up alongside of him to guide it around her waist. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. “I wanna show you something.” She reached around her belt with her free hand, loosed her kerambit from its sheath and held it out in front of her, in front of Sam.

“I got this when I moved out here. Thought I might have a use for it, being out here alone, not knowin’ anyone. I imagined danger and intrigue and weird inbred hillbilly murder families, and it turns out the scariest person I’ve met out here besides my mom is... you.” She re-sheathed the weapon and turned her gaze back to Sam, all glittering blue eyes and a sly, half-smile.

Suddenly, Sam was kissing her, blinking back tears, hands clasping her shoulders tight as if to confirm her corporeality. She was real, this was real, not some fiction or imagining. He knew how tragedies ended. He hoped to God she was wrong.


	39. Molecules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous smut.

Castiel strolled down the hall to the main room and up to Dean, who stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the bounty spread across the large map table. His face looked like that of an explorer discovering a landmark of majestic beauty. Castiel bit back a smile, relishing Dean’s look of wonderment. Then he noticed Sam’s… message.

“It says ‘ASS’,” Castiel said gruffly.

Dean turned with a raised eyebrow. “Sam’s handiwork I take it?”

“I would have made the second ‘S’ a ‘C’.”

“Why the hell would you write ‘asc’?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes and squinted at Dean through dark lashes.

Dean blinked and raised an eyebrow, still not quite there. 

Castiel cleared his throat and smiled slightly. “Would you like a fork?”

“Hell yeah, I would like a fork!” Dean exclaimed excitedly, looking at each pie carefully to decide where to start. 

Castiel walked into the kitchen area and returned with the utensil. “I have taken the liberty of starting a pot of coffee,” he said in his trademark, gravelly monotone. 

“Thanks, Cas, I really appreciate--Cas! Cas! The ‘C’ is for Cas!” he shouted, slapping the table in surprise and embarrassment.

“Yes, Dean,” smirked the angel. “The ‘C’ is for Cas.”

Dean sauntered up and snatched the fork from Castiel’s hand and playfully pointed it at him. “I may be a stupid sonofabitch from time to time, but at least I’m pretty.”

“At least there’s that,” nodded the angel in agreement, voice tinged with amusement.

Dean removed his jacket, chose a seat and slid over his two chosen pies. Castiel could see that one was the original apple pie that he’d placed on the floor in Dean’s room, and the other one a peach pie with a crumble crust.

“Cas, I just want you to know that I am one very, very happy Dean right now.”

“That pleases me.”

“I mean it, man. Literally no one has done anything like this for me before. It’s just…” Dean trailed off and left Castiel with a pair of puppy dog eyes and a wistful smile. Just then, there was beeping from the kitchen.

“That would be the coffee. Excuse me.” With that, Castiel turned and left the room.

The ridiculousness of the pies kept washing over Dean in waves, causing him to bite back smile after smile. There was no real sense to it, objectively speaking. Castiel had gone to great lengths to do something that to anyone else would seem silly, but meant a great deal to Dean. He was wooed and won. With pie. Lots and lots of pie.

Castiel returned with two cups of black coffee, one for Dean, and one for Castiel to hold, to keep his hands busy. He sat down his own cup at a seat near Dean’s, and then placed the other next to Dean’s chosen pies. As he moved his hand away, Dean caught it and pulled Castiel down next to him. “C’mere, Angel.” 

Castiel kneeled and said innocently, “Yes, Dean?”

“Angel, I want you to eat some pie with me.”

“Dean, your pie would be wasted on me. You know I--”

“Yeah, Cas, I know. I know it’s all molecules to you but, I dunno.” He gave a small shrug. “I just wanna share this with you, does that make sense?”

Castiel nodded. If nothing else, it signified an opportunity for bonding, for intimacy. “It would be my pleasure. Excuse me.” He stood and walked back into the kitchen, and returned with another fork.

The angel pulled his chair closer to Dean and sat down. Dean kept pointing his fork at one pie, then the other, and then back again, struggling to choose. Castiel waited, thinking it rude to begin eating before Dean. Eventually, Dean’s fork stopped, pointing at the apple pie. He looked directly at Castiel, making eyes that said,  _ I am going to do unspeakable things to this pie _ . With that, he dug in and took a large, Dean-sized bite. Castiel waited still, nervous, desperately hoping the pie was good enough to please his human. He didn’t have to wait long as Dean promptly started groaning with pleasure.

“Oh, Cas,” he moaned through a mouthful of pie, “you are the best.” He smiled, took a swig of his coffee, and dug out another big bite.

Relief flooded Castiel.  _ You did well. He is happy. _ He reached over tentatively, meaning to spear a small bite but then retreated his fork back. Not wanting Dean to sense his reticence, he finally committed, scooping up a few pieces of apple and a sliver of crust. He slowly, hesitantly placed the pie in his mouth and chewed. The sensation was unpleasant. To Castiel it felt only as if his mouth was the opposite of empty. Things were in there, were in the way, impeding his mouth’s proper functions. He thought perhaps adding coffee would help, but it only served to expand the volume of the contents of his mouth. He masticated quickly then swallowed, praying he was successfully masking his distaste.

Dean didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were a million miles away, blissed out on pie and increasingly overcome with gratitude for Castiel, Angel of the Lord. Castiel went in for another bite and Dean did the same, but before Castiel could put the bite into his mouth, Dean took his spare hand in his and squeezed. “This means a lot to me, Cas. You know that, right?”

Castiel nodded flashed a small, close-lipped smile. Dean kept Castiel’s hand gripped tightly as he shoveled in another mouthful, and Castiel followed suit.

_ Something is wrong _ , Castiel thought.  _ Wait, not wrong. Different _ . He looked over at Dean, blissful as ever and chewing away. He returned his attention to his own mouth and tried to make sense of the new sensations. It felt like looking at the clouds on a sunny summer day, and then suddenly seeing shapes in the clouds when before they were but formless white vapors. One looked like a rabbit, another a ghost, and then suddenly one looked just like a pie.

_ Pie _ . He was tasting the pie! The syrupy apples burst tartly in his mouth. The flaky crust was simultaneously chewy and crispy, and its buttery finish complemented the cinnamon that had been incorporated throughout. It was a revelation so startling that Castiel dropped his fork, letting it clatter to the table.  

Dean snapped to attention, waking from his pie daze to see Castiel making a face that could only be described as euphoric. Dean released the angel’s hand in order to wave his own in front of Castiel’s face. “You okay over there, buddy?” he asked with a grin.

Just as Dean released Castiel’s hand, the clouds disappeared and all that remained was formless, tasteless mush. Castiel grimaced and swallowed hard, then shook his head in distaste. He blinked, struggling to collect himself after being so overstimulated.

He cleared his throat. “Dean, I could taste the pie. Just for a moment, but I could taste it.”

“Really?” exclaimed Dean excitedly. “How in the hell...?”

“I am unsure. It was there, it was lovely. But then you let go of my hand and suddenly it became… molecules again.” Castiel’s countenance became one of frustration and self-doubt.

“Wait, hold on,” interrupted Dean. “When I was holding your hand, you could actually taste the pie? But then when I let go you couldn’t again?” With that, he snatched up Castiel’s hand and held it tightly between his own two. “Try another bite,” he said, face determined and dead-serious.

Castiel opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the right words. Instead, he took a deep breath, speared another bite and put it in his mouth.

Waves of pleasure coursed through Castiel. The sweet and the sour, the crispy and the flaky, danced through his mouth singing songs of all the happy times Castiel had spent with Dean on this Earth. Castiel could not suppress a moan.

“Cas, can you actually taste it?” asked a thrilled Dean. “What happens if I let go--”

Castiel gripped Dean tightly, and with a mouthful of pie and wide eyes he slowly shook his head.  _ Do not dare let go, Dean Winchester _ , his look threatened. He chewed, swallowed, and took another bite, a Dean-sized bite.

Dean bit his lower lip. He did not know what was happening, but he loved the faces his angel was making. He was downright beatific.  _ Jesus _ , he thought.  _ Do I make a come-fuck-me face whenever I eat pie _ ?

“Cas, you gotta tell me,” Dean said, overcome with curiosity. “What does it taste like?”

Castiel took another big bite and then said through chipmunk cheeks, “No words, Dean. Only sounds.” Then he moaned.

Dean could feel a stiffening in his pants at the sounds his angel was making. Castiel swallowed again and reached for another bite, but Dean caught his hand. He gently took the fork away and Castiel gave a small whimper. “Don’t worry, Angel,” he murmured lovingly, “I gotcha.” 

Still gripping Castiel’s left hand, he guided the fork to the before untouched peach pie with the crumble topping and scooped out  a generous portion. “I think you’ll like this one even more,” he said gruffly, voice tinged with lust. He very slowly maneuvered the fork towards Castiel’s soft, parted lips. He could feel the angel shiver with anticipation, and then freeze as the pie entered his mouth. His eyes fluttered closed as he sealed his mouth around the fork to suck off every crumb. 

Peach blossoms floated through Castiel’s mind, and bees. Friendly bees working hard to pollinate the trees and help them bear their peaches, bees to make the honey to sweeten the pie. He could taste the toil of the earth and the love of the infinite universe that went into making the single bite of pie he was enjoying. It was better than Heaven.

Castiel moaned again and Dean became even more aroused.  _ I am never thinking about pie in the same way ever again _ .

Dean fed Castiel another bite and another, and with each one Castiel became more euphoric, more lost in the sensations. Finally, Dean could bear it no longer. He popped out of his chair and climbed atop his blissed-out angel’s lap, still tightly clinging to his hand. He threw the fork on the ground, dug out a small piece of peach pie with his left hand and gently placed it in Castiel’s mouth. He let his fingers linger and slowly slide down Castiel’s lower lip. Castiel emitted a louder, more intense moan then before and Dean could feel a stiffening underneath him that matched his own. 

Dean took more pie into his hand and this time placed it deeper into his angel’s mouth, and unlike before Castiel caught Dean’s gaze. His eyes flashed blue with lust and hunger, and he wrapped his mouth around Dean’s fingers and sucked. Pie had dribbled down Castiel’s chin and Dean leaned in, licking it off slowly, moving up towards Castiel’s mouth. He slid his fingers away as their lips met and Castiel groaned in ecstasy.

Castiel fought to stay present in the moment. He leaned toward the table and took some of the pie in his own hand. He brought it to Dean’s lips and he accepted it greedily, sucking on Castiel’s fingers until no sticky residue remained. Dean reciprocated his angel’s moaning, eyelids fluttering erratically. 

Castiel came forward and met Dean’s mouth hungrily. He released his human’s hand in order to strip away his overshirt, still maintaining contact with their lips. He slid his hand under Dean’s t-shirt and around his back breaking the kiss in order to strip the shirt over his human’s head. 

They stumbled to standing, balancing like acrobats as they struggled to maintain at least one point of contact while relieving Castiel of his overcoat and suit jacket, letting both crumple to the floor. The angel loosened his tie and went to pull it off but Dean grabbed his hand to stop him. He pulled his mouth away, leaving Castiel breathless. 

“Leave that on, Angel,” growled Dean, words thick with desire. He pulled the tie up over Castiel’s collar and kissed the angel again, deeper this time, tongues intermingling with the tastes of peach and vanilla. Dean reached down and yanked his angel's shirt open, sending little buttons shooting off in all directions like fireworks. 

Castiel was lost in the moment. This was unlike the ethereal quality of Dean’s dream state, or when Dean had so passionately made love to the manifestations of his wings. This was pleasure of the basest nature, the pleasure of human sin. 

The pair had stripped down to their pants when Dean reached behind him, grabbing at whatever pie was in reach. He broke his kiss with Castiel, causing the angel to shudder, and then slid a morsel of cherry pie past his angel’s lips. He then ran his fingers across his own mouth, leaving behind a sweet smear of vibrant red. 

Castiel’s eyes fluttered as he was bombarded with a late summer sunset exploding in reds and oranges and purples across rolling hills extending forever in all directions. He shook his head and blinked, and when he saw his human’s face painted in the same sunset he could control himself no longer. He lunged at Dean, kissing and licking ever remnant of pie that covered his jaw, cheek and mouth. He kissed Dean deeply, longingly, and pushed him back and down onto the large map table. Some of the pies shifted and fell to the floor, but neither of them cared. There were more than enough.

They kissed each other passionately, hungrily, lips locked tightly as they fought their trousers and underwear to the floor. Castiel climbed onto Dean, straddling him, pelvises providing a new point of contact. He could feel Dean’s lust burning into him, stiff and aching for his nearness. Dean’s eyes bore into him as his breath came out in fevered panting. Dean propped himself up on his elbows and grabbed another handful of pie, this time blueberry, and smeared it across his chest and neck. With unquenchable desire in his eyes, he slowly brought his hand to Castiel’s mouth and slid his fingers past his angel’s full lips. Castiel greedily fellated his fingers as Dean wrapped a sticky hand around the angel’s tie, pulling him down on top of him. 

Castiel brought his mouth to Dean’s chest and began licking and kissing with a fervor beyond mere lust and desire. He wanted Dean, all of Dean, and as his mouth made its way up Dean’s neck his desire intensified. Dean began to moan, not for the pie, but for his angel who began unconsciously thrusting upward with every lick and kiss. Their want for one another was pressed up between them, a fire that intensified with the friction of their moving bodies and that spread out from their loins, filling every nook and cranny with dizzying desire. 

Just then, Castiel’s face changed. His eyes cleared and then lit up, burning with a hot, azure fire. His mouth hardened into a thin line and his breath came in and out sharply through his nose. Dean’s breath caught in his chest. His angel’s look filled him with fear and exhilaration. Castiel looked as if he was going to devour him up.

Castiel knew what he wanted. He didn’t care if it was the right thing to do, the ethical thing. He wasn’t a human, but he didn’t have to be one to sin like one, and to enjoy the fruits of that sin. Slowly, his slid off his human, making sure to anchor one hand to his leg. Dean whimpered at the sudden lack of pressure and friction, the new space between them seemingly millions of miles wide. Without breaking eye contact, Castiel grabbed a huge handful of the remains of the apple pie and spread it across Dean’s stomach. He painted it lower, along Dean’s upper thighs and pelvis, and slicked a sticky hand along the rock hard length of Dean’s throbbing, desperate manhood. Dean’s eyes rolled back into his head as he emitted a shuddering gasp. 

“Cas,” he hissed in pleasure. “Cas, have you done this before?”

Castiel’s voice came out a low growl, “No more talking, Dean Winchester.”

Suddenly, Castiel’s mouth and hands were all over Dean as he made love to his human’s stomach, kissing and licking every morsel of pie from Dean’s trembling abdominal muscles. Dean’s pelvis began to thrust unconsciously as Castiel’s mouth found its way down, lower, teasing the hairs at the edge of his pubic region. 

“C-cas,” shuddered Dean, “you--”

Dean’s breath caught as he found himself suddenly taken into Castiel’s mouth, soft lips forming a tight seal around Dean’s turgidity. His angel’s tongue swirled about him as he hungrily moved his mouth up and down, taking all of Dean deep inside him. He maintained intense eye contact with his human, blue fire flashing through dark lashes, and Dean couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. The heat of Castiel’s mouth and the intensity of his gaze was too much; his angel’s look of euphoric determination seemed to pulse in time with every pump of his mouth. Almost absently, Castiel snaked a sticky finger up Dean's chest and into his parted, panting mouth. He accepted it greedily, sucking on it with the same fervor as Castiel. Suddenly, Dean fell over the edge, coming so hard that he bucked up into Castiel, calling out into his hand the only word he knew anymore.

“ANGEL!”

As Dean spilled himself into Castiel’s mouth, the angel’s mind was transported to a cold and windy beach on an overcast day, the sounds of the surf washing in and out, the horizon merely a dark smear where the Heaven and Earth came together as one. The salt spray filled his senses, and down the beach he could see Dean walking. His human turned and smiled.

With that, Castiel was coming, coming, waves of pleasure crashing into him like a stormy sea. He pulled his mouth away from Dean and called out, the only word he knew anymore.

“DEAN!”


	40. For Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words of encouragement! It means a lot to me! If you have any suggestions or comments feel free to leave them. I always appreciate constructive feedback.

Charlene stood sturdily in the pre-dawn light, locked in Sam’s embrace, smiling into his sad, desperate kiss. She pulled her face back, brought her hand up to his lips, and looked at him with her kind, blue eyes. Her cool fingertips against the heat of his lips brought Sam back to the present, grounding his as Charlene knew they would.

“Sammy, Sammy, it’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here, you’re here, everything is okay.”

Sam bit back tears. “You’re right,” he said softly.

“I usually am,” she replied, matching his tone.”

“No, you are right about what kind of story I’m in,” he said, voiced tinged with helplessness. “It’s a tragedy. It’s always been a tragedy.”

Charlene smoothed her hands down Sam’s arms and took his hands in hers. “There’s beauty in that, Sam. Nobility, sacrifice, love, all inherent in this path you’ve chosen for yourself.”

You don’t understand,” Sam said in frustration, letting go of her hands. “This path,” he gestured to the Impala, “it’s no good. It turns people bad.”

“Did it turned you bad?” she asked quietly.

“No one comes back down this path better than they were before, and most don’t come back at all.” The light went out of Sam’s eyes. “I don’t want that for you.”

Charlene took a step back. She tucked her black hair behind her ears and then placed a hand on her hip. Her voice changed, took on a stern and serious tone. “Sam, you’re an idiot.”

Sam’s mouth hung open as he knit his brows together, unable to to think of a reply. 

Charlene continued, “Sam, I mean it. If you really think the work you do, the people you’ve saved, the love you have for Cas and for your brother... if you think that after all that you’re still a bad person? Well, you’re either an idiot or a fucking masochist. “

She stepped back toward him and her face softened again. She raised a gentle hand to his face. She could feel his jaw clench and unclench over and again as his eyes darted down to the ground and then back up to her eyes. She leaned into his ear and whispered, “so which one is it?”

Sam’s tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. “W-what?” he said, thickly.

Charlene closed her eyes and began to quote from memory, measured words with a measured rhythm. “Will all great Neptune’s oceans wash this blood clean from my hand?” 

Sam’s breath quickened. Macbeth. She was quoting Macbeth. Her eyes slowly opened, and in them Sam could see that she expected a reply, an answer to her question. She ran her hand down his arm again, taking his hand in hers.

He took a deep breath, squeezed her hand, and closed his eyes, struggling to recall the words. “No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.”

He opened his eyes again to see Charlene, nodding knowingly.

“Masochist it is,” she replied empathetically. “You’ve done some dark things, and you beat yourself up about it every spare second you have. You fear that, without the guilt, without the self loathing, you’d have nothing.” She released his hand and leaned into him, wrapping her long arms around in a comforting embrace. Then, she murmured reassuringly into his ear, “And bad is better than nothing, right?”

Sam nodded meekly at the sturdy,  graceful woman with the bright blue eyes, the woman who was unafraid to speak her mind, and who apparently knew his own mind better than he did. He slid his arms around her waist and hugged her right back.

Charlene took Sam’s head in both hands and pressed her forehead to his. “Now look, Sammy, you are going to stop feeling sorry for yourself. I'm a big girl, I don't need you to protect me. We are going to get into this car, we are going to drive to the magical bunker, and you are going to show me all of your books and let me meet your big brother. I need to hug Castiel and goddamnit, I want some of that fucking pie.” She gave Sam’s head a little squeeze. “Do you understand me?”

Sam nodded again.

“Goddamned right.”

Charlene released Sam and went to close the trunk lid, when something fell down into the trunk. She leaned in and pulled out a small rectangle wrapped in a black plastic bag like the kind one would get at a liquor store. It must have been tucked into the lining in the roof of the trunk. She stood and held it out for Sam’s inspection.

“What is this?” She asked curiously.

The question snapped Sam from his stupor. “Uh, never seen it before.” 

He took the rectangle from Charlene and slowly unwrapped the black plastic. Inside was a clear plastic cassette case, and in that was a plain, white audio cassette. On the audio cassette, written with Sharpie in his brother’s handwriting, were two words.

_ For Cas _ .

Charlene leaned over and took a peek. She eyed it curiously until she saw the writing, and then her eyes exploded to meet Sam’s equally surprised gaze. She started slapping Sam on the arm, exclaiming, “Holy shit! Holy shit! Is that what I think it is?!”

Sam answered her question with another question. “Did Dean make Castiel a mixtape?”

“Oh my god, we HAVE to listen to it!”

Sam was unsure. “Isn’t that an… invasion of privacy?”

“Sammy, upstairs you told me that on at least one confirmed occasion Dean has stuck your toothbrush in his armpit.”

He pressed his lips together and shrugged.

“Exactly,” she replied. “All bets are off.”

The two climbed into the Impala and Charlene excitedly clicked on the stereo. She ejected the existing tape, the one Castiel had sang for Dean, and slid it in her sweatshirt pocket for safekeeping. Then, she carefully slid out the tape For Cas, flipped it over and back to make sure she was starting on Side A, and slid it into the player. Sam turned the engine over and they waited for the music to start up.

“Oh my god, I’m dying,” she mumbled under her breath. 

“This feels like I’m reading his diary,” he mumbled in reply.

“You would totally read his diary and you know it.”

And then, the music began.


	41. A Soldier, a Servant, a Tool

“I think I like pie,” Castiel stated, breathless and gravelly. He was prone on his back on the floor next to the map table, completely nude except for his tie, covered in the sticky leavings of a half dozen pies splattered across his body like a Jackson Pollock food fight. Strewn around him on the ground were empty and partially empty pie tins, articles of clothing, a toppled chair, and the remnants of pie that made it out of tins but not into or onto either Dean or Castiel. It looked like a bakery had an orgasm.

“Cas,” Dean languidly called from above on the table where he still laid, “I think I’m going to get a boner every time I eat pie from now until the day I die.”

Castiel replied thoughtfully from the floor, “that sounds… inconvenient.”

“Worth it,” was Dean’s contented reply.

“I do not think I can get up, Dean,” Castiel murmured dreamily. He heard Dean give a groan, and saw his feet drop off the table and pad toward him, stepping gingerly over and around the pastry carnage. His human kneeled down next to him and Castiel was too blissed out to stifle his giggle. Dean’s face was smeared with pink and purple, his chest with yellow and orange. Little bits of crust stuck to him here and there, and there were blueberries matted in his hair.

“What’s so funny, pal?” asked Dean in mock indignation, knowing full well what was funny. “You should see yourself!”

“Come down here with me,” hummed the angel. Dean complied, lowering himself to the sticky floor to lay on his side, head on the angel’s chest, arm and leg draped over protectively. Dean’s hot breath combined with the cool skin of his cheek caused him to shiver.

“Cas, what the hell happened?” Dean wondered aloud.

“I am still not sure. The last 24 hours have been very... confusing,” replied Castiel in a low voice.

“Well sure,” said Dean in a playful, matter-of-fact tone. “You sneak into my dreams, then confess your love for me to my brother, you fucking vaporize my inner demons and I see you in all your dream-angel glory… oh yeah--”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted, “Do--”

“Oh angel, I’m just getting started.” He slid his hand down his lover’s tie. “Then there’s the part where I’m an asshole and you disappear, and rather than leaving my sorry ass to suffer alone you show up with 20 pies and a friggin’ love ballad. Then we get all wing kinky and astral project and then you explode angel fire all over the place and then we fuck on a table covered in pie.” Dean chuckled and then paused. “Let’s just say, I feel your confusion.”

Castiel did not reply for a moment. “Dean...” he started but trailed off, voice tinged with sadness.

Dean let go of the tie and pushed himself up with his hands to look at his angel’s face. He could see his eyes, moist and distant, trying to avoid Dean’s gaze. 

“Hey, hey,” Dean tried to soothe, “Angel, talk to me.”

Castiel met Dean’s eyes, finally, and bit his lower lip. He inhaled deeply through his nose before speaking. “I am confused and afraid and I do not know what is happening to me. I am here with you, and happily so. I am sharing new experiences with you and I can think of no one with whom I would rather do so. But the facts are what they are.” He cleared his throat. “I should not be able to manifest my wings on this plane. You should not be able to touch them. I should not be able to taste food. I should not be able to… have an orgasm. All of these things should not be possible, but now suddenly they are. If I cannot control these aspects of myself, I may be a danger to those around me. I do not want to hurt Sam, or you, or--”

Dean lowered himself down and stopped Castiel’s mouth with a kiss, soft and deep. Dean began to pull away but then Castiel leaned upward into Dean and reciprocated the kiss, deepening it. Dean could feel Castiel’s hot tears tickle his cheeks, causing something inside of him to flare up as well. Dean began to weep tears of adoration and gratitude for his beautiful friend, his angel who, upon experiencing all these powerful new sensations, thought first and foremost about Dean’s safety and well being. Dean slid his arms around Castiel’s neck and back and opened his mouth, allowing their tongues to explore one another, soothe one another. They could taste the salt of one another’s tears mingling with traces of fruit and sugar.

Castiel lost himself in the scent and taste of Dean, of gunpowder and sweat and holy oil. He let himself be held, embraced by Dean’s strong arms. Waves of gratitude washed over him. He could feel his heart lifting, his tears drying. He closed his eyes and centered himself. _Be present for this_ , he thought. _Appreciate this. Appreciate him._

Dean opened his eyes and noticed a dim glow beginning to emanate from Castiel’s torso. He renewed his kissing, deeper, needier. The glow grew brighter. Dean broke away in a gasp and pressed his cheek to Castiel’s. “Angel,” he sighed, “you’re perfect.”

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open and he saw his own illumination. “Oh no, no no…” he muttered breathlessly, anxiously. His glow began to dim.

“Shhh, shhh,” soothed Dean into his ear, “Angel, this is just you being you. You being happy. All this confusion? All your fears? You are just not used to feeling loved.”

With that, Castiel shivered in his human’s arms. Dean laid him gently back down to the floor. “Cas,”  he said gruffly, “angels were made to worship God and love humanity, never expecting anything in return. You’re designed to be a soldier, a servant. A tool.” Dean sniffed, and then smiled. “No one was made to love you back, so no one could anticipate what would happen when somebody finally did.” Dean leaned in and kissed Castiel sweetly on the forehead while placing a hand over his angel’s heart where the luminescence was brightest. “I love you, Angel,” he whispered.

With that, Dean laid back down and curled up next the Castiel, leaving his hand on his angel’s heart. Castiel covered Dean’s hand with his own, and smiled gratefully as they both basked in his warm and radiant glow.


	42. Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you, dear readers, the For Cas mixtape.  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLwIkJ2oPDYB0EAmChzMantO1uEO7XGpgC

“What is this?” asked Sam, genuinely confused.

“I think… I think those are cellos,” replied Charlene. Her mind was processing the sounds, the tune, searching her mental records for a match. It sounded slightly distorted, but then a familiar rhythm started up. Suddenly, it came to her. “Sam! This is a cello cover of Thunderstruck!”

“Wait, what? Who would cover AC/DC with cellos?” Sam wondered.

“I dunno, but it sounds pretty fucking awesome.”

They sat there in the Impala, and Charlene was enthralled. _Why this song? Why cellos?_

Sam struggled to piece things together. “Why would he put this song on a tape for Cas? I mean, he definitely does not have a tape of this. He’d need to download to his computer, then somehow transfer it to a cassette and copy that. He could have just recorded the original song and saved himself the trouble.”

“And Thunderstruck, that song is about a tumultuous relationship, right?” she added.  “There’s this guy, and he doesn’t know if the other guy has his back or not, but they go on adventures and party and stuff.”

“So, you’re saying this is a metaphor?” asked Sam dubiously. “Dean’s not really a metaphor guy.”

“No, Sam,” she corrected. “You told me Dean isn’t a WORDS guy. Music lets you say things you wouldn’t know how to say otherwise, express feelings you struggle to quantify. Dean put this song first to impress Castiel, to show him something new yet still quintessentially Dean.”

Sam snorted, “like a mating display?”

“Basically, yeah.”

Sam put the Impala into reverse, and was hit with the realization that for the next half an hour he would be in a car listening to a literature enthusiast carefully critique a mixtape compiled by his emotionally stunted brother for the purpose of wooing an extra dimensional being.

“This is kind of insane,” mumbled Sam.

“BLASPHEMY!” exclaimed Charlene. “Hush up and drive, the next song is about to start!”

As Sam pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road the second song began to play, and they could hear the familiar opening guitar of Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones pouring out of the car’s speakers.

_Oh, a storm is threat'ning_   
_My very life today,_   
_If I don't get some shelter_ _  
Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away._

_War, children, it's just a shot away,_   
_It's just a shot away._   
_War, children, it's just a shot away,  
It's just a shot away._

“Well, this one is kind of obvious, isn’t?” said Charlene smugly.

“Uh, is it?” he asked uncertainly.

“Um, yeah,” Charlene replied. “A storm is threatening his life, he needs shelter? There is danger all around? Allusions to hell?”

“Still not getting it,” said Sam with a frown.

“Dude, listen!”

_Ooh, see the fire is sweepin'_   
_Our very street today,_   
_Burns like a red coal carpet,_ _  
Mad bull lost its way._

“It’s all right there, Sammy!”

“What’s right there?”

“This song is about Castiel pulling Dean from Hell,” she said emphatically. “It’s perfect!”

“Ohhhhh,” Sam said, finally understanding. “Like, this is where the whole ‘profound bond’ thing started?”

“Yup! And it even references hidden longing, right from the start!”

_I tell you love, sister, it's just a kiss away,_   
_I tell you love, sister, it's just a kiss away,_   
_It's just a kiss away,_ _  
It's just a kiss away._

“Dang,” was all Sam could muster.

Charlene was practically bouncing in her seat, and every hop sent a jolt of pain through his hip. He bit his tongue, he couldn’t bear the thought of dampening her enthusiasm.

“This is fun! Let’s keep playing!”

There was quiet, and then the car filled with the sound of dozens of clocks chiming. The sound of a single string of a single guitar being strummed slowly followed, and then dreamy keyboard music joined in.

“Pink fucking Floyd,” muttered Charlene thoughtfully.

_Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day,_   
_Fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way,_   
_Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town,_ _  
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way._

“Oh, this is goooood,” said Charlene decisively.

“Is it?” asked Sam.

“Oh yes, this song says a lot.”

“Wait,” said Sam, “I thought this song was just about an old man looking back on his life with regret.”

“Well, it is, but then it’s not.”

“It’s not?”

“Just listen.”

_Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain,_   
_You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today,_   
_And then one day you find ten years have got behind you,_   
_No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun._   
_And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking,_   
_Racing around to come up behind you again,_   
_The sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older,_ _  
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death._

“Wait,” said Sam. “I think I’ve got this one. Dean regrets waiting so long to talk to Cas? About his feelings?”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Charlene. “See, I knew you would be good at this game!”

Sam scoffed. “This is a game?”

“Well, I’m having fun, aren’t you?”

_Home, home again,_   
_I like to be here when I can._   
_When I come home cold and tired,_   
_It's good to warm my bones beside the fire._   
_Far away, across the field,_   
_The tolling of the iron bell,_   
_Calls the faithful to their knees,_ _  
To hear the softly spoken magic spell._

“This last part is important,” said Charlene. “He’s talking about going home, right? Being home, hearing the magic of the church bell tolling. More religious imagery, right?”

“I’m listening.”

“We think that Dean’s been running, trying to catch up with time, resentful of his own inability to cope with his feelings for Castiel. But what this song tells me is that to Dean, time IS Castiel, the eternal, the ever-present. By the end of the song he realizes that he doesn’t need to chase time because it will always be there no matter what.”

“Holy shit.”

“Sammy, I could write a whole thesis about this mix tape,” she said contemplatively, looking out the window as dawn began breaking on the horizon. A thin smudge of orange peeked hopefully under the vast navy grey expanse of autumn sky above. “You know he put thought into this, right? Probably thought about it a lot, possibly while driving or spending quiet time at home. Ideas probably popped into his head in the middle of conversations between the two of you about Castiel and you didn’t even know it.”

“I know,” Sam said quietly. “I’ve known about this for forever, but Dean would, could never talk about it.”

Just then, the third song started, and as Sam turned onto the highway, he groaned.

_Carry on my wayward son,_   
_For there'll be peace when you are done._   
_Lay your weary head to rest,_ _  
Now don't you cry no more._

“Kansas! Really?” complained Sam. “Dean plays this song all the time!”

Charlene didn’t say anything, but instead sat quietly and listened, still looking out the window as scenery scrolled by.

_Masquerading as a man with a reason,_   
_My charade is the event of the season,_   
_And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely_   
_Means that I don't know._   
_On a stormy sea of moving emotion,_   
_Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean,_   
_I set a course for winds of fortune, but_ _  
I hear the voices say:_

_Carry on my wayward son,_   
_For there'll be peace when you are done._   
_Lay your weary head to rest,  
Now don't you cry no more._

Finally, she spoke. “I don’t think this song is about Castiel.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “Then what does it mean? Why did Dean add it?”

Charlene let slip a half smile and placed her left hand on Sam’s thigh. “Sammy, this song is about you.”

“Wait, what?” said Sam, shooting her a confused look. “How… huh? Explain please.”

“Sam, you are obviously the most important person in Dean’s life. From what you told me, he practically raised you.”

“He did raise me,” Sam replied quietly.

“Exactly. The things you’ve been through, the trials you’ve faced, all the sacrifices you’ve made for each other… he wants Castiel to remember that. Neither of you would be here without the other. Sort of a package deal situation.”

Sam pressed his lips together and gripped the steering wheel, not sure of what to say.

“Sam, I think one of the main reasons Dean says so little to you is that he wants you to feel comforted. To feel safe. He wants to protect you. That’s what this song is about. Dean protects you, and he wants Castiel to as well.”

Sam scrunched his face up and tipped his head to one side. He inhaled and exhaled through his nose and Charlene could see him blink back tears.

“You’re lucky to have a brother who loves you so much,” Charlene said kindly, squeezing his thigh.

“Yeah,” Sam said, swallowing. “I know.”

“And he’s lucky to have you.”

With that, Side A ended and the car went silent, nothing but road noise and the purr of the engine to accompany their thoughts.

Charlene gave Sam’s thigh another light squeeze. “Shall we continue?”

Sam took a deep breath and sighed, then nodded. “I’m learning more about Dean in thirty minutes than I have in thirty years,” he said, resigned.

“YAY!” exclaimed Charlene, smile wide. She ejected the tape and flipped it over. “Act two!”

The immediately recognizable music started and Charlene started slapping the side of the door in disbelief. Sam’s jaw dropped and he shot a gobsmacked look her way.

Charlene started bopping her head and singing along, her low voice infused with excitement.

“Darling you gotta let me know, should I stay or should I go? If you say that you are miiiiine, I'll be here 'til the end of time. So you gotta let me knoooow, should I stay or should I go?” With a wide smile she turned to Sam, pointed with two fingers, and exclaimed, “your turn!”

Sam cleared his throat and tried to catch up with the next verse. He was not accustomed to singing, unlike Dean who sang terribly and frequently in the car all the time. He imagined Dean singing this song, perhaps to Castiel, and he smiled. “It's always tease, tease, tease! You're happy when I'm on my knees! One day it's fine and next it's black, so if you want me off your back, well, come on and let me knoooooow…”  
Charlene chimed in with him, “Should I stay or should I go?”

Sam didn’t need Charlene to explain this song to him. It was patently obvious that Dean was referencing the tumult of his relationship with Castiel, the on again off again nature of their friendship, the constant pushing away and then crawling back.

The pair kept singing as they rolled down the highway, and Sam accelerated with exuberance. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, genuinely relaxed and enjoying himself.

“Should I stay or should I go now? If I go there will be trouble, and if I stay it will be double! So ya gotta let me knoooow… Should I stay or should I go?”

“You have a nice voice, Sam,” said Charlene, eyes sparkling. The rising sun in the east was beginning to shoot through the windows as they drove north towards the bunker. The rays illuminated the red highlights in Sam’s hair, and Charlene decided that he was indeed handsome in pensive, melancholy sort of way. He had wrinkles from years of flinching and wincing and suppressing emotions, but also from smiling and laughing. He had the face of someone who had lived a lot in a short span of time, deep brown eyes torn by time and anxiety. She hadn’t taken the time to notice his face before, she was too engrossed in his words, his story, his adorable awkwardness.

“You have chosen wisely, Charlene,” she mumbled to herself.

“What?” asked Sam.

“Oooh, next song!” she announced, smiling and ignoring Sam’s question.

_I am a passenger,_   
_And I ride and I ride,_   
_I ride through the city's backside,_   
_I see the stars come out of the sky,_   
_Yeah, they're bright in a hollow sky,_ _  
You know it looks so good tonight._

“Hey, I think I’ve got this one!” exclaimed Sam. “This is an Iggy Pop song, right?”

“Uh-huh,” confirmed Charlene, nodding because she already knew just where Sam was going with this.

“So I know he wrote this in the 70’s when he was spending time with David Bowie in Berlin…”

“Continue,” Charlene replied socratically.

“And they were both trying to kick drugs and it was rumored that they got very… close.”

“C’mon Sam, they were fucking.”

“Okay, yes, that.” he cleared his throat. “And the song is basically about him being along for the ride, under the control of this higher power that was showing him all these wonderful things that he missed before because he was hooked on junk.”

“Very good, Sam!” Charlene clapped her hands, legitimately impressed.

“So basically, Dean credits Castiel for helping him see the good things, for saving him from himself,” Sam explained, more to himself than to her.

Charlene grinned. “Dean is Iggy Pop to Castiel’s David freakin’ Bowie.”

_Oh, the passenger,_   
_He rides and he rides._   
_He sees things from under glass,_   
_He looks through his window's eye,_   
_He sees the things he knows are his,_   
_He sees the bright and hollow sky,_   
_He sees the city asleep at night,_   
_He sees the stars are out tonight,_   
_And all of it is yours and mine,_   
_And all of it is yours and mine,_ _  
Oh, let's ride and ride and ride and ride._

The song ended and Sam began, “hey, so we are probably five minutes out,” Sam cautioned. “Do you have questions before--”

Charlene interrupted, “no questions, only mixtape.” Just then, the next song started.

_I, I wish you could swim,_   
_Like the dolphins,_   
_Like dolphins can swim._   
_Though nothing, nothing will keep us together,_   
_We can beat them, forever and ever,_ _  
Oh, we can be heroes just for one day._

“Oh Jesus,” muttered Sam.

“David freakin’ Bowie, indeed,” murmured an awestruck Charlene.

_I, I will be King,_   
_And you, you will be Queen,_   
_Though nothing will drive them away,_   
_We can be heroes just for one day,_ _  
We can be us just for one day._

“So, I’m guessing this is the super literal part of the mixtape, then?” asked Sam, eyebrow raised.

“Not so much, Sammy,” she explained, smiling eyes crinkled and lit up by the dawn. “Listen.”

_I, I can remember,_   
_Standing, by the wall,_   
_And the guns, shot above our heads,_   
_And we kissed, as though nothing could fall,_   
_And the shame, was on the other side,_   
_Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever,_ _  
Then we could be heroes, just for one day._

Charlene explained, “Dean sees Castiel as his savior, and this song is about him wanting Castiel to make the first move, to initiate, to protect Dean from himself. To love Dean so intensely that nothing could stand between them.”

Sam's eyes flashed with sympathy. His brother was always the stoic one, the strong one, the decisive one. It never occurred to him that he might want a different role, a different path. His lips flattened into a small smile. This tape was a gift, not just for Castiel, but for Sam as well.

With that, Sam finally pulled the Impala onto the dirt road that led to the bunker. They rolled into a clearing and up to the squat, ramshackle building that served as the entrance to the bunker. Sam turned off the engine but left the keys in the ignition so that the stereo still played. “If we really wanna analyze Heroes, we can get deep into the nitty gritty of the Berlin Wall, the left and right dichotomy--”

“Wait,” Charlene stopped him as she unfastened her seat belt. “Did you just correctly use the word ‘dichotomy’ in a sentence to explain the literary meaning of a 1970’s glam rock song? Because, if so, I just need you to know…” She titled her head down and let her eyes burn into him through long, dark lashes. “That is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

In a flash, Charlene scrambled across the bench seat of the Impala and climbed atop Sam, running her fingers up and into his hair, kissing him breathlessly as the sunrise poured through the windows, coloring their skin in pink and purple, orange and yellow. She leaned down and passionately kissed his neck and jaw, biting softly and not so softly, tugging his hair and making him gasp. The final song of the mixtape began to play.

_Leaves are falling all around,_   
_It's time I was on my way,_   
_Thanks to you I'm much obliged,_   
_For such a pleasant stay,_   
_But now it's time for me to go,_   
_The autumn moon lights my way,_   
_For now I smell the rain,_   
_And with it pain,_ _  
And it's headed my way._

Their long limbs were constrained by the Impala, and Sam struggled for purchase, trying to wrap his arms around or under Charlene but impeded by door and seat, roof and window. Her intensity was both flattering and arousing; Sam felt overcome with gratitude and admiration for this perspicacious, charismatic giantess. Not only were his reservations about letting Charlene into his world completely gone, he now wholeheartedly knew it was the right thing to do. He needed this woman in his life as long as she’d be amenable.

_Ah, sometimes I grow so tired,_   
_But I know I've got one thing I got to do,_   
_Ramble on,_   
_And now's the time, the time is now_ _  
To sing my song,_

_I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl._   
_On my way,_   
_I've been this way ten years to the day._   
_Ramble on,  
Gotta find the queen of all my dreams._

Suddenly, Charlene shifted and laid into the car’s horn with her backside. She shot upright and went rigid, bumping head on ceiling. Oof,” she said, eyes wide with a half-grin, half-grimace plastered from ear to ear. She slid off Sam carefully, and could see a flush spread across his cheeks as red as the one she felt burning across her own. They both started laughing, hard and long until they were gasping and tears were streaming across their cheeks.

“I’m usually more coordinated than this,” she said, gasping.

“I blame the car.”

“I blame your gangly goddamn legs,” she replied with a grin. “Think they heard us?”

“Most likely,” replied Sam with a chuckle.

“Well, I guess it’s time to Ramble On,” she said unfazed, ejecting the spent tape and sliding it into her pocket. She leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek, opened the door, and hopped out.


	43. The New Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!

Castiel was startled from his blissful stupor by the sharp honking of a car horn from outside. _Sam. He is back._

Castiel’s glow died as he lifted his head from the floor and looked left and right. Dean was snoring softly, head rested on Castiel’s chest, arm and leg gently pinning him to the ground. _So much sleep to catch up on_ , thought Castiel tenderly. His eyes scanned his human, appreciating every freckle, every contour, every soft breath caressing his chest. He smiled at the sticky pie leavings that painted his soft skin.

He shook his head, snapping himself out of his daydream. He reassessed the damage to the room, knowing that Sam could burst through the door at any moment and find them in the wreckage of their carnality. It looked bad, and he knew it. _What would Sam say? How would Dean respond?_ There were too many unknown variables for Castiel to calculate the proper course of action. He carefully reached over with his free hand and gently shaked Dean to no effect. He pressed his lips together and tried to rouse Dean again, a little more vigorously.

“Just five more minutes…” mumbled Dean languidly, not registering Castiel’s disquietude.

“Dean,” prompted Castiel in a low voice, “you must wake up. Your brother--”

Dean’s head popped up, eyes blinking slow and hard, and he said in a discombobulated voice, “What about Sam?”

“He is here, he is right outside,” replied Castiel flatly. ‘You need to get up.”

Dean bolted upright, frantically felt up his torso with both hands to assess the situation. He looked down and saw his pie-covered body, sans clothes. He jerked his head around and saw the pie on the floor, on the chairs, on the table.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered. He tried to pop up onto his feet but caught his heel on a smear of marionberry and came down hard on his backside. “SONOFABITCH!” he said louder, panic creeping into his voice. His shot his gaze toward the angel. “A little help?” he asked, eyes wide.

Castiel rose to his feet, careful to sidestep any pie, and extended a hand down to his lover. Dean came to standing on shaky legs, still weak and stiff from his nap on the floor. He felt paralyzed. “Dammit, Cas!” he exclaimed in whisper tones. “What the hell do we do?”

Castiel also felt paralyzed, but not by fear. He knew he should move, act, do SOMETHING, but he couldn’t. He was transfixed by the sight of his human, the lithe lines of his body, the pull of his chest muscles as his breath moved in and out. His full lips, his skin painted with the remnants of their passion, the flare of his green eyes, all of this anchored his gaze; he was tethered to Dean with longing.

“Cas!” hissed Dean in a panic. His friend stared at him ardently, lips barely parted, eyes slowly tracing up and down the contours of his body. He could see the angel bite the corner of his lip, oblivious to the precious seconds slipping by until… _until what? What exactly are you afraid of, Dean? Sam? What’s the worst he could do?  Why do you care?_

Suddenly, Dean’s posture changed, his muscles slackened. He took two steps to close the gap between their bodies, and that movement awoke Castiel from his entrancement.

“Dean, I am sorry,” words tumbled from his mouth, “I do not mean to bring you shame, I did not foresee what might come of this--”

 Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s neck and gently pressed in for a kiss to calm the angel’s nervous babbling. Castiel went stiff, unsure of the hows and the whats and the whys. _He will see us, he will laugh at Dean,_ worried Castiel, mind racing. _Dean will want to be alone, to think again._

Dean gently pulled his face back, stubble grazing stubble. He could feel the rigidity of Castiel’s muscles, a look of helplessness and apprehension extinguishing the blue sparkle of his eyes. Their lips still grazed against one another as they shared each other’s breath. Castiel’s came shallow and panicked, but quickly he realized that Dean’s did not match his pace. Dean’s breath was slow, measured, and deep.

“Cas,” he whispered, “it’s okay--”

“But your brother--”

“If Sam doesn’t like it, he can fuck right off.”

Castiel’s eyes rose to meet Dean’s, and in them he could see a glimmer of mischief. _He is not afraid_ , Castiel realized. _He is proud_. As a large smile spread across Castiel’s face, so did a glow arise in his chest. Dean pulled him in tight to kiss every inch of that smile, cheek to cheek, and then pressed in deeper. Castiel’s glow grew brighter as their tongues intertwined in the dizziness of freedom.

Suddenly, they could hear the door at the top of the stair bang open, and the sing-song voice of a woman called out, “HONEY! I’M HOOOOOMMME!”

Atop the stairs, Charlene stood, holding the door open for Sam with a genteel bow and an “After you, good sir!” She let the door swing closed behind and followed Sam out onto the landing, hopping joyfully and feeling alive, _fucking alive! Bad is better than nothing, but good is decidedly best._ She snatched up Sam’s hand, and he turned and smiled at her, with one raised eyebrow that said, _well here goes something_. He led her down the stairs but then suddenly went rigid, squeezing her hand painfully.

“Sammy, what’s wrong?” Charlene asked breathlessly. She examined his face, which was contorted in confusion, brows furrowed and mouth partly open, looking for words that just weren’t there. His mouth opened wider as he tilted his head to one side, and she could see he was looking at something. She shoved him aside and looked over the railing and down into the main room.

The main room was large, appointed with a hodgepodge of thrift store furniture mixed with what appeared to be high-end antiques. The central feature of the room was a very large table covered in a map, and on the table were Castiel’s pies. Well, some of his pies. Some of them were eaten, some partially eaten. Some were smeared all over the table. And the floor. Actually, there was pie everywhere. And in the center of it all stood Castiel, completely nude except for his cheap blue tie, covered in smears of pie. He was locked in a tight embrace with another man, strikingly handsome, also nude, also covered in pie. Castiel was glowing from the inside out as he and the other man snogged unabashedly like they were the only two people on the planet.

Sam snapped out of his paralyzing astonishment. He started to clear his throat, announce his presence, but Charlene whipped around and shot daggers from her eyes and she laid a single finger over her lips, _you shut the hell up, Sam Winchester_.

She slowly crept down the stairs, the voyeur in her taking over completely. She had never seen anything so bizarre, so breathtaking. _The realities of magic, indeed! Had I known there was angel pie porn, I would have signed up much sooner._ She stopped halfway down the stairs as she felt guilt creeping up inside of her. _This is their special thing, and I’m here fucking ruining it because I want something “not normal”._

She looked back up to Sam, sad-eyed, and he replied with a questioning look, _well, now what?_ With that, Sam’s foot missed a step and he stumbled into Charlene with a surprised shout that he did his best to muffle, but it sent her off balance and she would have tumbled down the stair had she not reached out and grabbed the banister just in time. Sam and Charlene shot wide-eyed glances at one another, and then down at the couple, and then back again.

Slowly, Dean and Castiel’s lips parted, and they rested their foreheads together, eyes closed, centered by one another’s breath. Castiel whispered softly with a smile, so that only Dean could hear, “How long should we make them wait? Make them watch?”

“I dunno, pal,” Dean whispered back impishly. “Until it’s not funny anymore?”

Castiel opened his eyes and slowly blinked at his human as his smile unfolded more, matching his inner radiance and then some. He looked away and up the stairs where he made eye contact with Sam and then--

“Charlene?” Castiel felt like he was hit in the head with something fluffy, like a pillow in a freshly washed slipcover. She just stared at him with an open-mouth smile that radiated pride. She lifted a hand and gave a emphatic thumbs-up. Dean looked up from the angel and saw her, and Sam, and flashed a big smile while simultaneously giving both of them a friendly middle finger. With that, they poofed away in a flash of static.

Both of them stood in silence for a few moments. “Hot damn!” exclaimed Charlene. “That was literally the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” She spoke rapidly, manically. “Hands down. I mean, what? What in the actual fuck? What did we just see? Is that your ‘normal’?”

“Nope,” replied Sam plainly. “I can safely say I’ve never seen ANYTHING like that before.”

“Can I just say how proud I am right now?” she said with a grin. “I knew Castiel was going to be fine, but I had no idea he had,” she gestured broadly down into the main room, “THIS in him.”

“So I should blame you for this mess?” Sam said with a smirk as he nodded his head down toward the table.

“That’s not a mess,” countered Charlene teasingly. “That’s art!”

“It’s something all right.”

Charlene poked Sam in the chest and said, “Show me where the forks are. I’m STARVING.”

Sam looked at her wide-eyed.

“C’mon, Sammy, I’m not going to eat their sex pie off the floor! There are plenty of… unmolested pies left over,” she said with a snort. With that, she took Sam by the hand and led him down the stairs, keeping her other hand gliding over the railing for security. At the bottom she walked right into the middle of the mess and slowly turned around, imagination running wild.

Sam trudged into the kitchen to retrieve the requested fork, and his mind raced. Cas was smiling. His brother looked happy. They clearly had sex, and that sex involved pie. Now that their feelings were requited, was this the new way of things? He had so many questions, but he had a feeling neither Castiel nor Dean had sufficient answers to give him, at least not yet. He pulled a fork from a drawer, then thought better of it and decided to get a second one. He was hungry as well, possibly enough to enjoy sex-adjacent pie.

He came back out to find Charlene crouching amidst the destruction, analyzing something on the floor. Upon closer inspection he realized that it was a sticky, purple handprint.

“Goddammit, I am NOT cleaning this up,” he mumbled, handing Charlene her fork.

“Just a minute,” she said, pulling her phone from her pocket. She started taking pictures, of the handprint, the table, the pie on the floor. Sam just stared, unsure of what was happening.

“I'm recording this for posterity. You said it yourself, you've never seen anything like this before.” She scrunched her face to suppress a smile. “We need need to add this to the Angel Lore.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

She continued, smirking, “or at the very least make a scrapbook to give as a gift on their first anniversary.”

“Huh,” replied Sam, nonplussed.

“Sammy, are you not diverted?” she asked, voice edged with the slightest bit of confusion.

Sam sighed softly, walked around the table, and pulled out one of the chairs not splattered with pie. He sat down with a barely audible “harrumph”, dug a bite out of one of the intact pies and shoved it into his mouth petulantly.

Charlene found a clean spot on the table near Sam and sat atop it, taking the extra fork and stealing a bite of pie. They are in silence, eyes unfocused as their minds raced. Finally, Charlene spoke up.

“Sam, why are you not absolutely over the moon right now?” she asked incredulously. Sam suddenly felt deeply ashamed; he’d never heard her use that tone before. She was disappointed in him.

“I dunno…” he mumbled. “This is just a lot to take in.”

“Is it, though?” she asked pointedly. “You told me this was a long time coming.”

His voice took on a defensive edge. “I said I knew about this for a long time, but I didn’t think anyone would actually ACT on it. I was excited at first, really I was, but… I haven’t prepared for this. I haven’t thought out the ramifications. So now,” he said, gesturing to the mess of the room, “I need to figure out the next steps. I’ve been thrown into the deep end of the angel pie-sex pool and all I can do is doggie paddle.”

“Or,” added Charlene dryly, “you could just trust your brother.”

Sam looked down at his fork and didn’t reply.

Charlene set down her fork and placed a hand on Sam’s arm.

“You’re not going to lose him, you know that, right? Things are going to better now. More interesting.” She smirked, “more pie-larious.”

Sam exhaled through his nose with a sharp puff. Charlene took a breath in, let her eyes close, and then sang softly, down tempo, in her low and sultry voice.

“On a stormy sea of moving emotion, tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean. I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say,” she opened her eyes and smiled, “carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more.”

Sam’s eyes jumped up to meet Charlene’s, and he knew what she said was true. Things would be better now. Messier definitely, with more drama, but Dean had done so much for him and he deserved this. He deserved something good.

He smiled. “Seriously, though, did you see them? Absolutely covered in pie.”

“Looked like a good time to me,” countered Charlene with a wink.

Suddenly, the lights in the room flared and dimmed as a low rumbling sound vibrated the hall.

Charlene looked around and smiled, then picked up her fork to salute. “To the new normal!”

“Here, here!” replied Sam with a grin.


	44. Every Dark Corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace sex and handjobs ahoy!

With a flash of thrumming whiteness, Dean found himself in the bathroom, arms still entwined with Castiel’s. He flashed him a small smile and stepped away, giving the angel a light slap on the ass.

Castiel flinched, startled, and then frowned. “Dean, did I do something to upset you?”

Dean jerked his head back slightly and squinted. “Uh, no, Cas. You’re fine. That’s just a… form of endearment.”

Castiel continued in a slightly bewildered monotone, “I do not believe I have seen you do that to Sam.”

Dean chuckled. “I don’t want to have sex with Sam, angel.”

“Oh, I see,” replied Castiel with a shy smile. “That is a form of endearment reserved for me.”

“You’re a weird guy, you know that?” smiled Dean.

“I am not technically a ‘guy’,” he said in air quotes. Castiel turned slightly and awkwardly, haltingly swatted Dean’s ass right back.

Dean yelped softly and jerked away, surprised at Castiel’s playfulness. “Nope. You’re Castiel, Angel of the friggin’ Lord, receiver of Dean’s ass slaps forever and ever, amen.”

Dean turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. “Man, I look like a clown melted,” he said under his breath. Then he turned, suddenly remembering. “That lady, was that Charlene? THE Charlene? The boop lady?”

“Indeed,” Castiel replied happily. “I did not anticipate seeing her so soon. I do not know why she was with Sam; it is a strange coincidence. I shall have to ask her.” He paused. “I would very much like to show my appreciation for all of her help. Without her, my endeavor certainly would have failed.”

“Ah, we probably would have ended up here eventually,” soothed Dean.

“I am not so sure,” said Castiel, eyes cast downward. “I have trouble… talking.”

“You and me both, Cas.”

“And… I worry that it will continue.”

Dean leaned over to start the shower, brushing arms with the angel, sending a shiver through both of them, and then stood up so they were face to face. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to practice, right?” he said solemnly, green eyes reflecting blue. He reached over and loosened Castiel’s pie-splattered tie enough to pull it off and let it drop to the floor. He stepped over the edge of the bathtub and hissed as the hot water hit his shoulder. He held out his hand. Castiel took it and Dean guided him in to join him, then closed the curtain behind. Dean stepped back to let the hot water massage him, arching his back to let it flow through his har. Bits of blueberry rinsed down toward the drain and he grinned, then closed his eyes.

Castiel stood awkwardly at the other end of the tub, arms at his sides, making his hands into fists and relaxing them repeatedly. He was not sure what to do, how this worked, so he just stared at his human enjoying himself.  _ When he smiles I know he means it, _ thought Castiel. _ It lights up every dark corner _ . He cleared his throat. “I wish I could make you smile, always.”

Dean opened his eyes and saw his angel uncomfortable, like he felt out of place. Dean raised his arms to Castiel’s hips and gripped softly, then carefully stepped around him to guide him backwards to the water. Castiel felt the hot water wash over him and he decided that yes, it did feel quite pleasant. Dean did not remove his hands from the angel’s hips and said softly, “I’m not always gonna smile, Cas. I’m not always gonna be happy. That’s not how people work.”

Castiel nodded, and somberly replied, “I know. Still, that is my wish, and I vow to make it a… priority.”

Dean released Castiel and snatched the wash rag off the curtain rod. He ran it under the water behind Castiel’s back and then crouched down to pick up the bottle at their feet. He placed a delicate kiss on the angel’s hipbone that tingled and traveled through his abdomen to pool in his loins. Dean then squirted some soap into the washcloth and stood, regarding Castiel with a puckish look. A cloud of steam had filled the room, making their close quarters seem even more intimate. Dean lathered up the washcloth between his hands, and Castiel paid special attention to the flexing muscles in his human’s forearms, the strong hands he so admired. He watched the soap bubble up and squeeze through his long fingers, dripping down to his elbows. He had never actually seen someone bathe before, not in person, and the thought of Dean soaping himself up, scrubbing off the remains of their sins, caused the tingle to build in his loins and spread out toward his extremities. 

To Castiel’s surprise, instead of washing himself, Dean ever so slowly reached out toward Castiel. He applied light pressure to the angel’s left shoulder and moved the cloth in slow, small circles, trailing down and across his angel’s chest. Castiel’s lips parted slightly and he let out a small gasp as the cloth slid over his erect nipples, causing the tingle to intensify into a pulsing torridity. Castiel stood rigidly, lost in the new sensations but also unsure of what to do, how to move. Dean moved the rag downwards, applying slightly more pressure and moving in wider circles as he scrubbed the muscles of Castiel’s abdomen and sides. Castiel’s exhalations were little more than shallow, shuddering breaths as Dean moved down to his hips, painting ephemeral pictures in soapy swirls, dissolved in an instant by the heat of the shower. Dean stopped suddenly, just below his navel, causing Castiel to tremble at the sudden cessation of stimulation.

Dean leaned into Castiel and gently nipped the soft flesh where his neck met his shoulder and Castiel hissed with a sharp intake of breath. Dean continued up his neck, water trickling down the side of his face, leaving a trail with his teeth all the way up to Castiel’s ear. He took his earlobe between his teeth and sucked, then bit down just enough to register pain. 

“D-dean…” Castiel shuddered, low and gravelly voice filled with uncertainty and exhilaration.

Dean whispered low and seductively in his ear, “I’m not smilin’ right now angel, but I think we’re doing just fine.” With that, he bit down on a soft spot just below the jaw and sucked hard, causing Castiel to reflexively reach out and around Dean, pulling him in close. With Dean pressed against him he realized that he’d become painfully aroused, and it only intensified when he realized Dean was in the same state. “Turn around, angel,” Dean murmured seductively, but Castiel didn’t want to release him, didn’t want to turn and give up the sweet friction between their hips.

“Dean…” he gasped, “this is already very… pleasant.”

“Cas,” he intoned breathily, “you know I’ve thought about this, right? About being here with you? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but if you turn around I promise you’ll like it.” He took the angel’s earlobe between his teeth again and tugged hard. Castiel inhaled sharply and then nodded, lowering his arms and letting Dean slowly, carefully turn him around. Once his back was turned, he felt Dean apply the wash rag again, moving in the same slow, small circles as before. He travelled along his backside and the small of his back, sloughing every bit of sugary evidence away. He stepped closer, pressing his pelvis into Castiel from behind and he could feel the heat of him, hotter even than the scalding shower water. He reached around to soap his stomach from behind, moving sensually up and down, teasing from his pubic hairs all the way up for an occasional flick of a nipple. Then he growled low in Castiel’s ear, “even if I cannot see them, are they still here?”

Castiel whimpered, struggling to find words. “You mean… my w-wings?”

“Yeah, angel, your wings.”

“Y-yes and n-no,” Castiel shuddered as Dean continued to soap him. “They are closer to this plane the closer they are to my body.” He took a deep breath, trying to stay focused on his words. “The spot where they meet my back is the most sensi-- oh!” Castiel exclaimed as Dean slipped down to his groin, causing his stiff cock to twitch reflexively. “T-that is why I prefer to wear both a suit jacket and an… overcoat,” Castiel said, breathlessly.

“So, if I was to, for some reason, do this,” he brought the washcloth up between his friend’s shoulders, languidly circled around where the little black feathers lived, and Castiel bucked forward, almost losing his footing and toppling out of the tub. Dean saw a flickering shadow suddenly fill the bathroom, and then dissipate when he removed the washcloth. “There they are,” he murmured, clearly pleased with himself. 

“Dean,” moaned the angel softly. The wantonness of his angel’s voice aroused Dean further, sending rolling waves of desire to crash over him as if he was not submerged under the hot torrent of shower water, but instead Castiel was the torrent, his words massaging and teasing. “Dean,” he groaned again, “I cannot manifest them now, it is unsafe. I cannot control myself.”

“See, Cas,” growled his human in his ear, “I think you can control them. You doubt yourself, but you are an Angel of the friggin’ Lord. You are strong, way stronger than me,” with that he laid a soft kiss and a nip right between his shoulder blades, causing the shadow to return, the steam flashing into a storm cloud for just a moment, and Dean could feel the tingle of ozone compete with the hot, wet spray. “I know you'd never hurt me,” he whispered. “I believe in you.”

Castiel nodded in consent, understanding now what Dean wanted. He wanted to tease Castiel, to the point of breaking, just to prove his angel could take it. “I will be strong,” he said, his low growl reverberating off the bathroom tile. 

Dean pulled the angel close, thrusting his hips into Castiel, who again momentarily sent dark static coursing through the room with a gasp. He leaned forward to grasp the plumbing, and focused on the hot spray to steady himself. He could feel Dean’s heat, his longing, and strongest of all his adoration. His worship. 

Dean let the washrag drop to the floor of the tub and slid one strong, freckled arm around Castiel’s chest while the other snaked around lower, grasping his angel’s rock hard wanting that flared like a lightning rod in his hand. He began to pump, agonizingly slow, and then brought his mouth again to Castiel’s shoulder blades. He kissed delicately in time with the movements of his hand, every soft caress of his lips a counterpoint to the grip of his callused fingers. Castiel shuddered with pleasure, as the darkness and static ebbed and flowed with his human’s movements. Air began to displace in the room, sending the steam swirling around them. A storm was moving in.

The rhythm of Dean’s hand intensified unconsciously. He was enraptured, a familiar feeling whenever Castiel was around, but it was now ratched up to the end of the dial. He was the one who felt out of control; he was the one so tired of fighting, of protecting, of forcing the world to submit to his will. Waves of gratitude flooded him as water and static hissed around him. Castiel was the lightning, the sky.

Dean bit down hard between Castiel’s shoulder blades, swirling his tongue and then sucking with intensity. From Castiel’s panting mouth there slipped a moan, low and resonant, which triggered Dean to pump harder, faster.  An arc of purple lightning shot out of his angel’s spine and along the length of Dean from head to heel, and the overhead light flared then dimmed as darkness spread and filled the room. Dean groaned and pulled the angel closer, pumped faster, every atom in his body vibrating with want, with trust, with devotion. 

Castiel could feel his wings pulsing just beneath the fabric of the mortal plane, desperate to break through. The effort required to maintain his human form was in and of itself a new type of torturous ecstasy. He was strong, he was in control, and he could feel his grace coalescing and intensifying within him, ready to do his bidding. 

Dean bit down again and started desperately kissing the angel’s back, hand pumping frantically as he began to lose himself in the storm of Castiel. He could not see Castiel smile with his shuddering breath, but he did see a low glow build in his angel’s torso. He pressed his stubbly cheek into his back and gasped, “Yes, angel, come for me.”

Castiel rocked back into his human, but he did not come. Instead, the glow of his grace intensified and pooled in his chest and groin, causing Dean’s hands to hum with pleasure. The glow spread, and to Dean’s great surprise he watched as the glow began to travel up his arms, into his shoulders, flooding his senses with a before unknown sensation that brought tears to his eyes. It was all he could do to keep his hand moving, to keep himself upright, as the glow moved into his chest. It was breathtaking, and with it the flashes of purple lightning came quicker and with greater intensity. Both of them moaned loudly, rocking into one another, and the glow spread, moving down into Dean’s loins as his furiously pumped. It was with a shuddering breath he gave Castiel’s shoulder blades one last, shaky kiss, and then suddenly their skin was lit with violet as the lightning flashed all around them. Castiel’s muscles seized as his throbbing cock shuddered in Dean’s hand, spilling itself onto the floor of the tub, and the white light that had suffused through Dean’s body flared in the dark. He came with Castiel, in time with his rolling glow, crying and shaking and helpless, holding on for dear life as his angel’s grace surged through him.

Time suddenly slowed to a stop, and Dean could see the spray of the shower in high detail, thousands of tiny droplets suspended midair, refracting the white and purple light. The air glittered in the darkness, the hiss of static transmuted into a low hum that caressed the tiny hairs on their skin. It was beautiful, it was perfect. It was Castiel.

With a final swell of pleasure, time rushed forward again. Castiel’s grace slowly dimmed, and the lighting in the room returned to normal. Castiel took a deep breath and turned to see his human utterly undone, tears streaming down his cheeks and shaking. He wrapped Dean up in his arms and held him close.  They put their chins on one another’s shoulders, moving so that they were both under the hot water of the shower, where they stayed until their breaths matched one another's again. 

“I told you so,” Dean murmured with a smile.


	45. Tyger, Tyger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter. Thank you, dear readers, for your kudos and support. Writing this story was very fulfilling. I appreciate any comments and feedback you are willing to provide. Compliments make me feel good about my work, and feedback helps me become a better writer.
> 
> Much love,  
> \- hautesauce

“So,” started Charlene with a smirk, “when do you think they'll be, uh, done in there?”

Sam grimaced. “I'm actually trying not to think about it.”

Charlene was seated on the table, Sam in his chair, and a nearly empty pie tin sat in between them framed by two sticky forks. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and let out a robust yawn.

“You yawn like a cat,” she mused.

“Say what now?” he shot back, suddenly insecure.

“Yeah, like a big, sleepy cat. Maybe a tiger?” She paused and winked. “At the very least a Maine coon.”

“Hardeehar,” he replied with snark.

She slid off the table and stalked toward him, wicked smile crossing her face. “You remind me of a poem by William Blake.” She reached out for his hand and he gave it to her, rising up from the chair.

“Do I?” he said coolly, but his internal monologue was a rapidfire repetition of a singular want.   _Pleaserecitepoetry pleaserecitepoetry pleaserecitepoetry_.

She didn't close her eyes this time, the poem clearly seared into her memory. Instead, she just stared into his eyes, her mischief comingling with his yearning.

“Tyger Tyger, burning bright,   
In the forests of the night;   
What immortal hand or eye,   
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Sam couldn’t help but to bite his lip. “So, uh… what does that mean?” he said, trying not to stammer like he was fourteen again. She simply took a step toward him, placing the hand she was holding on her hip, and continued, cerulean eyes flashing.

‘In what distant deeps or skies.   
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?   
On what wings dare he aspire?   
What the hand, dare seize the fire?”

She slid her hands up his shoulders and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, teasing the hairs at his nape with the ghostlike tracings of her fingertips. Sam pressed his lips together, trying to keep his breathing measured and face composed.

“And what shoulder, & what art,   
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?   
And when thy heart began to beat,   
What dread hand? & what dread feet?”

Sam slid both hands around her waist and pulled her in closer, and Charlene slid one leg in between his, inseams pressed together tracing a line straight up to where their desire for one another pooled. She reached up from behind, slid her fingers up through Sam’s hair and ever-so-gently arched his head back to expose the soft skin of his neck and jaw. She continued reciting, punctuating each line with a small nip of a kiss, starting at his ear and moving down toward his collarbone. Sam could feel meaning of each word ghosting across his skin, and that alone could account for the unbearable stiffening he felt pressing inside his jeans.

“What the hammer? what the chain,   
In what furnace was thy brain?   
What the anvil? what dread grasp,   
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!”

At the last word of the stanza, Charlene pulled Sam’s head back toward her, causing Sam just enough pain so that it was still pleasure, and pressed in for a deep kiss. Sam moaned into her mouth and she reciprocated, searching his mouth with her tongue like she was searching for an answer to a question. He answered with his own tongue as their lips moved together with singular intent. Suddenly she pulled back, leaving Sam gasping and wanting. Her eyes flashed and she moved again to renew the kiss, but stopped short, lips grazing, as she finished her poem. Sam shuddered with need for the brilliant, torturous woman.

“When the stars threw down their spears   
And water'd heaven with their tears:   
Did he smile his work to see?   
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”

With that, Sam ran his strong hand down along Charlene’s backside and under her thigh, pulling her outside knee up and toward him, intensifying their friction. She pulled him down into her, kissing with fervor. With Sam, she felt different, appreciated, abnormal at its most superlative. She felt alive; he was her shocking red, the brightest thing in her day. She knew that at long last her story had begun.

She broke the kiss and whispered torridly, “Do you like it when I talk nerdy, Sammy?”

He panted back, “I could listen to you all day and do nothing else,” he leaned down to suck lightly on her collarbone, “and go to bed happy.”

Charlene ground up and into him, feeling his tumescence respond instinctively. She pressed her cheek to his and hummed in his ear, “So that must mean you want to know why you’re the Tyger.”

Sam was tongue-tied and could only nod. She again ground into him again and he let out a small moan that lit a fire in Charlene that she’d never felt before with any partner.

“It means…” she murmured into his his ear, “that you were no accident. You were made this way with intent, with craftsmanship. You are at once a force of good and beauty as well as destruction, and,” she hissed sharply as Sam sucked a small bruise on to her neck, “you get to determine which traits you express because you were given free will.”

Sam swung her around and pushed her into one of the large supporting columns that held up the stairs. He kissed her desperately on the mouth, and then all over her face, leaving tiny tokens of adoration and gratitude over every square inch of exposed skin. She closed her eyes and smiled, lust bubbling up from some previously untapped well deep down inside. Sam erection was as hard as the marble pillar against which she was pinned, pressing into her with ardor. Suddenly, she heard a whoosh and a flutter and could see Castiel and Dean standing behind Sam, fully clothed and clean. Castiel’s face was slack but his sparkling eyes betrayed his amusement. Dean’s face was plastered with the dopiest big-brother smile she’d ever seen. Dean started clapping enthusiastically and the sound of it triggered him to release Charlene’s leg, then freeze.

“Are you not going to introduce us?” Dean teased gruffly. “That’s just bad manners.”

Charlene was unfazed. She simply slid out from behind Sam and strode toward Castiel with singular intent. Castiel shuffled uncomfortably and she approached him and then seized up as she wrapped her long arms around him tightly. She squeezed him hard until his muscles relaxed and he brought his own arms up to reciprocate. She leaned in and whispered with a grin, “You put Lloyd Dobler to shame.”

“I am pleased to see you, Charlene,” he murmured back gratefully.

“Me too, angel,” she replied. “Why didn’t you tell me about… this? You?”

“I was under the impression it was understood.”

Charlene thought for a moment and replied, “I guess you’re right.”

Sam stood behind them, trying to hide his uncomfortable erection from his brother.

She gave Castiel a small kiss on the cheek and released him, turning toward Deam. Before she could walk over to hug him, he strode forward and wrapped her up into his own arms roughly and squeezed her tightly.

“Thank you,” he said appreciatively, “for helping him.”

She chuckled as she wrapped her own arms around his back and squeezed. “I was merely a facilitator.”

He let one hand release her as he gestured toward Sam, smirk lighting his face as his eyes flickered down to his crotch and back up again. “How’d you end up with ol’ Sammy here?”

She turned toward Sam with a smile. “Oh, he’s my boyfriend now.”

Sam’s eyes went wide and both Castiel and Dean raised their eyebrows in unison.

“Am I wrong?” she asked Sam, smile mischievous.  

He raised his hands in deference, shifting uncomfortably in his pants, and squeaked out a small smile. “No, I guess not.”

“Damn straight,” she said emphatically. She reached into her sweatshirt pockets and pulled out two cassette tapes, one Audioslave, one For Cas. She put the Audioslave tape into one of Dean’s hands. “This one is for you,” she said with a sly smile, “and this one,” she placed the mix tape into his other hand, “is For Cas.”

Panic froze Dean’s face into a look of wide surprise. “Wait, where did you find this?”

Charlene shrugged, “it was in the trunk of your Baby.”

“Wait,” he said, looking up at Sam with surprise, “she’s seen the trunk?”

“Um, yeah?” Sam replied, haltingly.

Dean continued, incredulous, “What else do you know?”

Charlene cleared her throat, and then spoke with authoritative charisma, counting off points on her fingers, “I know you and Sam are Men of Letters, hunters of evil. I know you are brothers, that your dad was a hunter, and that you’ve faced dangerous foes. You’ve died multiple time and have been resurrected. You were stuck in hell and this goofball,” she said, gesturing with her thumb at Castiel who smiled at the term of endearment, “pulled your ass out.” She paused for effect. “I know you’ve been ‘touched by an angel’, and I know I really like your mix tape.”

Dean seemed unfazed by all of her proclamations but one. “Wait, you mean you LISTENED to this?!” He said, holding the tape close to his chest. “Wait, you BOTH listened to this?!”

Sam cleared his throat, “For the record, Dean, I think it’s really great.”

Finally, Castiel spoke. “Dean,” he intoned in his gravelly monotone, “what is that?”

“It’s a, it’s a… it’s nothing,” he mumbled, struggling to make eye contact with his angel. He let his hand holding the tape drop to his side as he looked down to the floor.

Suddenly, with a fluttering of feathers, Castiel stood directly behind Dean and snatched the tape from his hand. As he stepped back he held the tape up for closer inspection. He noticed the inscription. _For Cas._

Dean spun around, eyes wide and terrified, but he noticed Castiel’s face was one of joy as he carefully handled the cassette, turning it over in his hand, inspecting it with wonder.

“Dean,” he said lowly, “did you make this… for me?”

Dean started babbling, “Yeah, but, well, I mean I made it before, before all of this,” he gestured around broadly, “and I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance, the chance to give it to you, or that, you know, people would actually ever LISTEN to it,” he glared at Sam, “and I-- I--”

Castiel stepped forward, gently took Dean’s hand, and carefully placed the tape back into it. “Here, Dean,” he soothed. “It is okay, I have no desire to listen to it against your wishes.”

Dean looked to Sam and Charlene, expecting looks of ridicule, but saw only compassion. He looked back to Castiel, whose eyes were lit with gratitude.

“Dean, it means a lot to know you thought of me, before all of this. Thank you.”

Dean sighed. _Who am I kidding? Just give him the friggin’ tape._

He held the tape back out to Castiel. “Here, angel,” he said softly. “Take it. I made it for you."

Castiel eagerly searched Dean’s eyes for consent and found it, then gingerly took the tape back. He held it like it was some rare treasure, because for Castiel, it was. “I will be back soon,” he said solemnly, and with a rush of static he poofed away.

Dean leaned forward, hands on his knees. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he groaned.

Charlene hopped happily. “Dean, that was amazing!”

He groaned again, “I am dying inside.”

“Don’t be nervous!” she exclaimed! “He’d love it even if it was bad!”

He looked up at her. “Yeah,” he conceded. “I know.”

She walked over to him and patted him soothingly on the back. “Here, let me help you clean all this up.”

Dean rose and looked around. “I think this might be considered hazardous waste at this point,” he said with a grimace.

“Just get me a pair of gloves and I’ll be fine,” she soothed. "Sammy’ll help, won’t you?” She said, shooting a teasing look his way.

“Nope! Absolutely not,” he said in disgust. “Sorry, Dean, but this is a bridge too far.”

“Sam with make coffee then,” she grumbled playfully in concession, “after he fetches all of the cleaning supplies.”

They all paused as they heard the sound of cellos waft down the hall from Dean’s room. Dean wrinkled his nose and took a deep breath as Charlene shot Sam a knowing look.

Dean had Charlene start with the least offensive chores, moving all of the uneaten pies to the kitchen area, filling the bucket with hot, soapy water. She collected the empty pie tins and threw them in the rubbish bin. Dean wiped up the most egregious sins first, anything related to bodily fluids, He crawled around on his knees scooping up globs of pie and throwing them into a plastic garbage bag, and used a soapy rag to wipe up the sticky stains. He couldn’t help but smile as he did so, and his face twisted into a wide grin once he came across Castiel’s sticky blueberry handprint on the door.

Charlene noticed Dean and smiled. “I took a picture of that; I can text it to you.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

As they cleaned, Sam and Charlene swapped stories with Dean. Charlene spoke of meeting Castiel at the diner, and her role in helping him reconnect with Dean. She talked about meeting Sam at the bar, making sure to point out how terrible he was at Galaga. Sam talked about her apartment, bragged about her books, her intelligence. Charlene told Dean all about her mother, her directionless life, her desire for something more. Dean listened intently on his hands and knees, methodically scrubbing. When Sam and Charlene reached the end of their tale, he paused and sat up.

“I’m not sure how to explain what happened here,” he said gruffly.

Sam countered compassionately, “But are you happy?”

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m pretty friggin’ happy,” he said with a small smile. “But, things are gonna be messy for a while. I’m kinda outta my depth here.”

“We always figure it out,” Sam replied.

Dean pressed a hand to the floor and stood. He tossed the rainbow-stained rag into the sudsy bucket and surveyed the newly clean room. “Yeah, Sammy, we do,” he said softly.

Suddenly, there was a flash and flutter, and Castiel stood before Dean, eyes wet and wanting. He threw his arms around Dean’s neck and kissed his human with a renewed passion, causing Dean’s pulse to flutter.

“Cas,” Dean gasped as he broke away. “Did you… like it?”

Castiel gave a small grateful nod and leaned into his ear. “And shame was on the other side.”

Dean smiled and whispered back, “We can beat them, forever and ever.”

Suddenly Charlene’s excited voice called out in song, “And we can be herooooes!”

Sam cleared his throat and muttered amusedly, “Just for one day."


End file.
